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POEMS 



LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. 



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POEMS 



LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY 



PUBLISHED BY JOHN LOCKEN, 

JVo. 311 Market Street. 

1842. 









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fe£T.f 
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Entered according to the Act of Congress, in the 

year 1841, by 

JOHN LOCK EN, 

in the clerk's office of the District Court of the 

. , .eastern district .0,? Pennsylvania 



Stereotyped by Murray & Joyce, 21 Minor Street. 
Printed by T. K. & P. G. Collins, 1 Lodge Place. 



V3 



to- 



fc CONTENTS. 






* 



J 

PAGE 

The First Morning of Spring 13 

" Not Dead, but Sleepeth" .... 15 

The Communion 17 

Thoughts at the Funeral of a Friend . . 20 
On a Picture of Penitence ... .23 

Rome 24 

Departure of Mrs. Hannah More from Barley 

Wood 27 

Peace 32 

Tomb of a Young Friend at Mount Auburn . . 33 

Midnight Music ........ 35 

Trust in God 36 

The Christian Mourner ..... 40 

Faith 42 

The Dying Mother's Prayer .... 44 

Consecration of a Church 4G 

The Christian Going Home . . . . 4S 

Waiting upon the Lord 50 



V1U CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Death-Bed of the Rev. Dr. Payson . . . 52 

Mission Hymn 54 

On Meeting Several Former Pupils at the Com- 
munion Table 56 

The Lost Sister 58 

Mistaken Grief 60 

Departure of Missionaries for Ceylon . . .62 

Cry of the Corannas 61 

Gift of a Bible 66 

Home Missions 68 

On the Death of a Friend 69 

The Journey with the Dead . . • . . 71 
Prisoners' Evening Hymn. Written for the 

Females in the Connecticut State Prison . 74 

The Huguenot Pastor 76 

"This is not your Rest" 79 

The Second Birth-day 81 

Death of a Clergyman 83 

" Depart, Christian Soul" 85 

The Forest Tribes 87 

Death of a Distinguished Man .... 89 

Parting Hymn of Missionaries to Burmah . . 92 

Babe Bereaved of its Mother .... 91 

" Whither shall I flee from Thy Presence V* . 96 

The Indian's Welcome to the Pilgrim Fathers . 98 

Birth-day of the First-born 100 

The Half-century Sermon 101 



CONTENTS. IX 

PAGE 

Death of a Beautiful Boy 104 

Foreign Missions 106 

Evening Thoughts 107 

The African Mother at her Daughter's Grave . 109 

To Mourning Parents 112 

Sailor's Funeral 113 

Christian Hope . . . . . • .116 
Lady Jane Grey. On seeing a Picture repre- 
senting her engaged in the study of Plato 118 
Death of a Missionary in Africa . . . .122 

Dirge 123 

Vas Vobis 125 

Boy's Last Bequest 127 

"Hinder them not" 129 

Moravian Missions to Greenland . . .131 

Paul at Athens 133 

The Muffled Knocker 136 

Changes ? ... 138 

On Reading the Memoir of Mrs. Judson J. . 140 
Tribute to the Rev. Dr. Cornelius . . . .143 

Charity Hymn 147 

Picture of a Sleeping Infant watched by a Dog . 149 
On Returning from Church . . . .151 

The Baptism 152 

Death of the Wife of a Clergyman . . .156 
Christmas Hymn . . . . . . .159 

Death of the Rev. Gordon Hall .... 160 



X CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Tomb of Absalom 162 

Death of a Young Lady at the Retreat for the 

Insane 165 

The Tower at Montevideo 167 

Birth-day Verses to a Little Girl . . .169 

Farewell to the Aged 171 

"Thy Will be Done" 173 

Death of Mrs. H. W. Winslow, Missionary in 

Ceylon 174 

"I will Arise and go unto my Father" . . 170 
Voice from the Grave of a Sunday-school 

Teacher 178 

On the Death of a Member of the Infant School 179 
Death of a Young Musician .... 181 
The South-American Statues . . . .183 

Agriculture 187 

Funeral of a Physician 189 

Nature's Royalty 192 

Sentiment in a Sermon 194 

The Power of Friendship. An Ancient Legend 

ofFranconia 195 

The Garden 202 

Vice 206 

The Swedish Lovers 207 

To the Moon 218 

To the Evening Primrose 221 

Imitation of Parts of the Prophet Amos . . 222 



CONTENTS. XI 

PAGE 

Death of the, Principal of a Retreat for ths 

Insane 230 

Legh Richmond among the Ruins of Iona . 233 

Marie of Wurtemburg 235 

Zama 238 

Pilgrim Fathers 241 

"Weep not" 243 

On the Death of a Former Pupil : . . .245 

The Sleeping Infant 248 

The Orphan's Trust 249 

The Ordination 251 

The Host of Gideon 254 

Farewell : 256 



POEMS 

BY 

LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. 



THE FIRST MORNING OF SPRING. 



Break from your chains, ye lingering streams ;. 
Rise, blossoms, from your wintry dreams ; 
Drear fields, your robes of verdure take ; 
Birds, from your trance of silence wake ; 
Glad trees, resume your leafy crown ; 
Shrubs, o'er the mirror-brooks bend down ;. 
Bland zephyrs, wheresoe'er ye stray, 
The Spring doth call you, — come away. 
Thou too, my soul, with quicken' d force- 
Pursue thy brief, thy measur'd course; 



14 THE FIRST MORNING OF SPRING. 

With grateful zeal each power employ ; 
Catch vigour from Creation's joy ; 
And deeply on thy shortening span 
Stamp love to God and love to man. 

But Spring, with tardy step, appears, 
Chill is her eye, and moist with tears ; 
Still are the founts in fetters bound, — 
The flower-germs shrink within the ground. 
Where are the warblers of the sky ? 
I ask, — and angry blasts reply. 
It is not thus in heavenly bowers : — 
Nor ice-bound rill, nor drooping flowers, 
Nor silent harp, nor folded wing, 
Invade that everlasting Spring 
Toward which we look with wishful tear, 
While pilgrims in this wintry sphere. 



15 



'NOT DEAD, BUT SLEEPETH.' 



Not dead ? A marble seal is prest, 

Where her bright glance did part, 
A weight is on the pulseless breast, 

And ice around the heart ; 
No more she wakes with greeting smile, 

Gay voice, and buoyant tread, 
But yet ye calmly say the while, 

She sleeps, she is not dead. 

If thou dost mourn for ashes cold, — 

A voice from heaven replied, 
" Then be thine anguish uncontroll'd, 

Thy tears a heathen tide ; 
Thine idol was that vestment fair 

Which wraps the spirit free, 
Earth, air, and water, claim their share, 

Say I which shall comfort thee ? 

But the strong mind whose heaven-born thought 
No earthly chain could bind, 



16 "NOT DEAD, BUT SLEErETH. 

The holy heart divinely fraught 
With love to all mankind, 

The humble soul whose early trust 
Was with its God on high, 

These were thy sister, who in dust 
May sleep, but cannot die." 



17 



THE COMMUNION. 



Master ! it is good to be here." 

Mark, ix., 5. 



They knelt them side by side ; the hoary man 
Whose memory was an age, and she whose 

cheek 
Gleam' d like that velvet, which the young moss- 
rose 
Puts blushing forth from its scarce sever'd 

sheath. 
There was the sage, — whose eye of science 

spans 
The comet in his path of fire, — and she 
Whose household duty was her sole delight 
And highest study. On the chancel clasp'd, 
In meek devotion, were those bounteous hands 
Which pour forth charities, unask'd, untir'd, — 
And his which roughly win the scanty bread 
2 



18 THE COMMUNION. 

For his young children. There the man of might 
On bended knee, fast by his servant's side, 
Sought the same Master, — brethren in one 

faith, 
And fellow-pilgrims. 

See yon wrinkled brow, 
Where care and grief for many a year have 

trac'd 
Alternate furrows, — bow'd so near those lips, 
Which but the honey and the dew of love 
Have nourish'd. And, for each, eternal health 
Descendeth here. 

Look! look! as yon deep veil 
Is swept aside, what an o'erwhelming page 
Disease hath written with its pen of pain. 
Ah, suffering sister, thou art hasting where 
No treacherous hectic plants is funeral rose : 
Drink thou the wine-cup of thy risen Lord, 
And it shall nerve thee for thy toilsome path 
Through the dark valley of the shade of death. 

— 'Tis o'er. A holy silence reigns around. 
The organ slumbers. The sweet, solemn voice 
Of him who dealt the soul its heavenly food 
Turns inward, like a wearied sentinel, 
Pillowing on thought profound. 

Then every head 
Bends low in parting worship, — mute, and deep, 
The whisper of the soul. And who may tell 



THE COMMUNION. 19 

In that brief, silent space, how many a hope 
Is born that hath a life beyond the tomb. 

— So hear us, Father ! in our voiceless prayer, 
That at thy better banquet all may meet, 
And take the cup of bliss, and thirst no more. 



20 



THOUGHTS AT THE FUNERAL OF 
A FRIEND. 



That solemn knell, whose mournful call 
Strikes on the heart, I heard ; 

I saw the sable pall 
Covering the form revered. 
And, lo! his fathers' race, the ancient and 
the blest, 
Unlock the dim sepulchral halls, where silently 
they rest, 
And to the unsaluting tomb, 
Curtained round with rayless gloom, 
He entereth in, a wearied guest. 

To his bereaved abode, the fire- side chair, 

The holy, household prayer, 
Affection's watchful zeal, his life that blest, 
The tuneful lips that soothed his pain, 
With the dear name of "Father" thrilling 
through his breast, 
He cometh not again. 



THOUGHTS AT THE FUNERAL OF A FRIEND. 21 

Flowers in his home bloom fair, 

The evening taper sparkles clear, 
The intellectual banquet waiteth there, 
Which his heart held so dear. 
The tenderness and grace 
That make religion beautiful still spread 
Their sainted wings to guard the place- 
Alluring friendship's frequent tread. 
Still seeks the stranger's foot that hospitable 
door, 
But he, the husband and the sire, returneth 
never more. 

His was the upright deed, 
His the unswerving course, 
'Mid every thwarting current's force, 
Unchanged by venal aim, or flattery's hollow 
reed : 
The holy truth walked ever by his side, 
And in his bosom dwelt, companion, judge, and 
guide. 

But when disease revealed 
To his unclouded eye 
The stern destroyer standing nigh, 

Where turned he for a shield 1 
Wrapt he the robe of stainless rectitude 
Around his breast to meet cold Jordan's flood? 
Grasped he the staff* of pride 
His steps through death's dark vale to guide? 



22 THOUGHTS AT THE FUNERAL OF A FRIEND. 

Ah no ! self-righteousness he cast aside, 
Clasping, with firm and fearless faith, the cross 
of Him who died. 

Serene, — serene, — 
He press' d the crumbling verge of this terrestrial 
scene, 
Breath' d soft in childlike trust 

The parting groan, — 

Gave back to dust its dust,— 

To Heaven, its own. 



ON A PICTURE OF PENITENCE. 



Yes ! look to Heaven. Earth scorns to lend 
Refuge, or ray thy steps to guide ; 

Bids pity with suspicion blend, 
And slander check compassion's tide. 

We will not ask, what thorn hath found 
Admittance to thy bosom fair, — 

If love hath dealt a traitor's wound, 
Or hopeless folly woke despair : — 

We only say, that sinless clime, 
To which is raised thy streaming eye, 

Hath pardon for the deepest crime, 
Though erring man that boon deny : — 

We only say, the prayerful breast, 
The gushing tear of contrite pain, 

Have power to ope that portal blest, 
Where vaunting pride must toil in vain. 



24 



ROME. 



'Tis sunset on the Palatine. A flood 
Of living glory wraps the Sabine hills, 
And o'er the rough and serrate Appenines 
Floats like a burning mantle. Purple mists 
Rise faintly o'er the grey and ivied tombs 
Of the Campagna, as sad memory steals 
Forth from the twilight of the heart, to hold 
Its mournful vigil o'er affection's dust. 
Was that thy camp, old Romulus, where creeps 
The clinging vine-flower round yon fallen fanes 
And mouldering columns ? 

Lo ! thy clay-built huts, 
And band of malcontents, with barbarous port, 
Up from the sea of buried ages rise, 
Darkening the scene. Methinks I see thee 

stand, 
Thou wo If- nursed monarch, o'er the human 

herd 
Supreme in savageness, yet strong to plant 
Barrier and bulwark, whence should burst a 

might 
And majesty by thy untutored soul 



ROME. 25 

Unmeasured, unconceived. As little dreams 
The careless boy, who to the teeming earth 
Casts the light acorn, of the forest's pomp, 
Which, springing from that noteless germ, shall 

rear 
Its banner to the skies, when he must sleep 
A noteless atom. 

Hark ! the owlet's cry, 
That, like a muttering sybil, makes her cell 
'Mid Nero's house of gold, with clustering 

bats, 
And gliding lizards. Tells she not to man, 
In the hoarse plaint of that discordant shriek, 
The end of earthly glory ? 

With mad haste 
No more the chariot round the stadium flies ; 
Nor toil the rivals in the painful race 
To the far goal ; nor from yon broken arch 
Comes forth the victor, with flushed brow, to 

claim 
The hard-earned garland. All have pass'd 

away, 
Save the dead ruins, and the living robe 
That nature wraps around them. Anxious fear, 
High-swollen expectancy, intense despair, 
And wild exulting triumph, here have reigned, 
And perished all. 



26 ROME. 

'Twere well could we forgei 
How oft the gladiator's blood hath stained 
Yon grass-grown pavement, while imperial 

Rome 
With all her fairest, brightest brows, looked 

down 
On the stern courage of the wounded wretch 
Grappling with mortal agony. The sigh 
Or tone of tender pity were to him 
A dialect unknown, o'er whose dim eye 
The distant vision of his cabin rude, 
With all its echoing voices, all the rush 
Of its cool, flowing waters, brought a pang 
To which keen death was slight. 

But now the scene 
Once proudly peopled with the gods of earth 
Spreads unempurpled, unimpassion'd forth, 
While, curtain'd with her ancient glory, — Rome 
Slumbereth, like one o'erwearied. 



27 



DEPARTURE OF 
MRS. HANNAH MORE 

FROM BARLEY WOOD. 



It was a lovely scene, 
That cottage 'mid the trees, 
And peerless England's shaven green, 

Peep'd, their interstices between, 
While in each sweet recess, and grotto wild, 
Nature convers'd with art, or on her labours 
smil'd. 



It seem'd a parting hour, 
And she whose hand had made 
That spot so beautiful with woven shade 
And aromatic shrub and flower, 
Turn'd her from those haunts away, 
Tho' spring relum'd each charm, and fondly 
woo'd her stay. 



28 DEPARTURE OF MRS. HANNAH MORE. 

Yon mansion teems with legends for the 

heart : 
There her lov'd sisters circled round her side, 
To share in all her toils a part, 
There, too, with gentle sigh 
Each laid her down to die : 
Methinks their beckoning phantoms glide, 
Twining with tenderest ties 
Of hoarded memories, 
Green bower, and quiet walk,and vine wreath'd 
spot : 
Hark ! where the cypress waves 
Above their peaceful graves, 
Seems not some echo on the gale to rise ? 
" O, sister, leave us not !" 



Her lingering footstep stays 
Upon that threshold stone, 
And o'er the pictur'd wall, her farewell gaze 
Rests on the portraits, one by one, 
Of treasur'd friends, before her gone 
To that bright world of bliss where partings are 
unknown. 

The wintry snows 
That fourscore years disclose, 
When slow to life's last verge, Time's lonely 
chariot goes, 
Are on her temples ; and her features meek 



DEPARTURE OF MRS. HANNAH MORE. 29 

Subdued and silent sorrow speak ; 
Yet still her arm in cheerful trust doth lean 
On faithful friendship's prop, — that changeless 
evergreen. 

Like Eve, from Paradise, she goes, 
Yet not by guilt involv'd in woes, 
Nor driven by angel bands, — 
The flaming sword is planted at her gate 

By menial hands : 
Yes, those who at her table fed 
Despise the giver of their daily bread, 
And from ingratitude and hate 
The wounded patron fled. 

Think not the pang was slight 
That thus within her uncomplaining breast 

She cover' d from the light : 
Tho' knowledge o'er her mind had pour'd 

The full, imperishable hoard, 
Tho' virtue, such as dwells among the blest. 
Came nightly, on reflection's wing, to soothe her 
soul to rest, 
Tho' Fame to farthest earth her name had 

borne, 
These brought no shield against the envious 
thorn : 
Deem not the envenom' d dart 
Invulnerable found her thrilling woman's heart. 



30 DEPARTURE OF MRS. HANNAH MOKE. 

Man's home is everywhere. On ocean's flood, 
Where the strong ship with storm -defying tether 
Doth link, in stormy brotherhood 
Earth's utmost zones together, 
Where'er the red gold glows, the spice-trees 

wave, 
Where the rich diamond ripens, 'mid the flame 
Of vertic suns that ope the stranger's grave, 
He, with bronz'd cheek and daring step 
doth rove ; 
He with short pang and slight 
Doth turn him from the chequer' d light 
Of the fair moon thro' his own forests dancing, 
Where music, joy, and love, 

Were his young hours entrancing ; 
And where ambition's thunder-claim 
Points out his lot, 
•Or fitful wealth allures to roam, 
There, doth he make his home, 
Repining not. 

It is not thus with Woman. The far halls, 

Though ruinous and lone, 
Where first her pleased ear drank a nursing- 
mother's tone, — 
The home with humble walls, 
Where breath'd a parent's prayer around her 
bed — 
The valley, where with playmates true, 
She cull'd the strawberry, bright with dew, — 



DEPARTURE OF MRS. HANNAH MORE. 31 

The bower, where Love her timid footsteps 

led — 
The hearth-stone where her children grew, — 
The damp soil where she cast 
The flower-seeds of her hope, and saw them 
bide the blast, — 
Affection, with unfading tint recalls, 
Lingering round the ivied walls, 
Where every rose hath in its cup a bee, 

Making fresh honey of remember' d things, 
Each rose without a thorn, each bee bereft of 
stings. 



32 



PEACE. 



Peace I leave with you."— John, xiv.,27. 



"Peace" was the song the angels sang, 

When Jesus sought this vale of tears, 
And sweet that heavenly prelude rang, 

To calm the wondering shepherds' fears : — 
" War," is the word that man hath spoke, 

Convuls'd by passions dark and dread, 
And vengeance bound a lawless yoke 

Even where the Gospel's banner spread. 

" Peace, 11 was the prayer the Saviour brenthed 

When from our world his steps withdrew, 
The gift he to his friends bequeathed 

With Calvary and the cross in view : — 
And ye whose souls have felt his love, 

Guard day and night this rich bequest, 
The watch-word of the host above, 

The passport to their realm of rest. 



33 



TOMB OF A YOUNG FRIEND AT 
MOUNT AUBURN. 



I do remember thee. 

There was a strain 
Of thrilling music, a soft breath of flowers 
Telling of summer to a festive throng, 
That fill'd the lighted halls. And the sweet 

smile 
That spoke their welcome, the high warbled lay 
Swelling with rapture through a parent's heart, 
Were thine. 

Time wav'd his noiseless wand awhile, 
And in thy cherish'd home once more I stood, 
Amid those twin'd and cluster'd sympathies 
Where the rich blessings of thy heart sprang 

forth, 
Like the moss rose. Where was the voice of 

song 
Pouring out glad and glorious melody ? — 
But when I ask'd for thee, they took me where 
A hallow' d mountain wrapt its verdant head 
In changeful drapery of woods, and flowers, 
3 



34 TOMB OF A YOUNG FRIEND. 

And silver streams, and where thou erst didst 

love, 
Musing to walk, and lend a serious ear 
To the wild melody of birds that hung 
Their unharm'd dwellings 'mid its woven 

bowers. 
Yet here and there, involv'd in curtaining 

shades 
Uprose those sculptur'd monuments that bear 
The ponderous warnings of eternity. 

So, thou hast pass'd the unreturning gate, 
Where dust with dust doth linger, and gone 

down 
In all the beauty of thy blooming years 
To this most sacred city of the dead. 
The granite obelisk and the pale flower 
Reveal thy couch. Fit emblems of the frail 
And the immortal. 

But that bitter grief 
Which holds stern vigil o'er the mouldering 

clay, 
Keeping long night-watch with its sullen lamp 
Had fled thy tomb, and faith did lift its eye 
Full of sweet tears : for when warm tear-drops 

gush 
From the pure memories of a love that wrought 
For others happiness, and rose to take 
Its own full share of happiness above, 
Are they not sweet ? 



35 



MIDNIGHT MUSIC* 



What maketh music, when the bird 

Doth hush its merry lay ? 
And the sweet spirit of the flowers 

Hath sighed itself away ? 
What maketh music when the frost 

Enchains the murmuring rill, 
And every song that summer woke 

In winter's trance is still ? 



♦ "The Rev. Mr. George Herbert, in one of hi8 
walks to Salisbury to join a musical society, saw a 
poor man, with a poorer horse, which had fallen 
under its load. Putting off his canonical coat, he 
helped the poor man to unload, and raise the hoise, 
and afterwards to load him again. The poor man 
blessed him for it, and he blessed the poor man. And 
so like was he to the good Samaritan, that he gave 
him money to refresh both himself and his horse, ad- 
monishing him also, 'if he loved himself, to be mer- 
ciful to his beast.' Then, coming to his musical 
friends at Salisbury, they began to wonder that Mr. 
George Herbert, who used to be always so trim and 
neat, should come into that company so soiled and 



36 MIDNIGHT MUSIC. 

What maketh music when the winds 

In strong encounter rise, 
When ocean strikes his thunder-gong, 

And the rent cloud replies ? 
While no adventurous planet dares 

The midnight arch to deck, 
And, in its startled dream, the babe 

Doth clasp its mother's neck ? 

And when the fiercer storms of fate 

Wild o'er the pilgrim sweep, 
And earthquake-voices claim the hopes 

He treasur'd long and deep, 
When loud the threatening passions roar 

Like lions in their den, 
And vengeful tempests lash the shore, 

What maketh music then? 

discomposed. Yet, when he told them the reason, 
one of them said that he had ' disparaged himself by 
so mean an employment.' But his answer was that, 
the thought of what he had done, would prove music 
to him at midnight, and that the omission of it would 
have made discord in his conscience, whenever he 
should pass that place. 'For if,' said he, 'I am 
bound to pray for all that are in distress, I am surely 
bound, so far as is in my power, to practise what I 
pray for. And though I do not wish for the like oc- 
casion every day, yet would I not willingly pass one 
day of my life without comforting a sad soul, or 
showing mercy, and I praise God for this opportunity. 
So now let us tune our instruments.' " 



MIDNIGHT MUSIC. 

The deed to humble virtue born, 

Which nursing memory taught 
To shun a boastful world's applause, 

And love the lowly thought, 
This builds a cell within the heart, 

Amid the blasts of care, 
And tuning high its heaven-struck harp, 

Makes midnight music there. 



38 



TRUST IN GOD. 



"And David said, Let me now fall into the hand of 
the Lord, for his mercies are great,— and let me not 
fall into the hand of man."— 2 Sam. xxiv., 14. 



Man hath a voice severe, 
His neighbour's fault to blame, 

A wakeful eye, a listening ear 
To note his brother's shame. 

He, with suspicious glance 

The curtain' d breast doth read, 

And raise the accusing balance high, 
To weigh the doubtful deed. 

Oh Thou, whose piercing thought 
Doth note each secret path, 

For mercy to Thy throne, we fly, 
From man's condemning wrath. 

Thou, who dost dimness mark 
In Heaven's resplendent way, 



TRUST IN GOD. 

And folly in that angel host 
Who serve thee night and day. 

How fearless should our trust 

In thy compassion be, 
When from our brother of the dust 

We dare appeal to Thee. 



40 



THE CHRISTIAN MOURNER. 



I saw a dark procession slowly wind 
'Mid funeral shades, and a lone mourner stand 
Fast by the yawning of the pit that whelm'd 
His bosom's idol. 

Then the sable scene 
Faded away, and to his alter' d home 
Sad fancy follow' d him, and saw him fold 
His one, lone babe, in agoniz'd embrace, 
And kiss the brow of trusting innocence, 
That in its blessed ignorance wail'd not 
A mother lost. Yet she who would have 

watch'd 
Each germ of intellect, each bud of truth, 
Each fair unfolding of the fruit of Heaven, 
With thrilling joy, was like the marble cold. 

— There were the flowers she planted, blooming 

fair, 
As if in mockery, — there the varied stores 
That in the beauty of their order charm'd 
At once the tasteful and the studious hour, 
Pictures, and tinted shells, and treasur'd tomes ; 



the ciikistta:: mourner. 41 

But the presiding mind, the cheerful voice, 
The greeting glance, the spirit-stirring smile, 
Fled, fled for ever. 

And he knoweth all ! 
Hath felt it all, deep in his tortur'd soul, 
Till reason and philosophy grew faint, 
Beneath a grief like his. Whence hath he then 
The power to comfort others, and to speak 
Thus of the resurrection ? 

He hath found 
That hope which is an anchor to the soul, 
And with a martyr- courage holds him up 
To bear the will of God. 

Say, ye who tempt 
The sea of life, by summer-gales impell'd, 
Have ye this anchor ? Sure a time will come 
For storms to try you, and strong blasts to rend 
Your painted sails, and shred your gold-like 

chaff 
O'er the wild wave ; and what a wreck is man 
If sorrow find him unsustain'd by God. 



42 



FAITH. 



Wrapt in the robe of Faith, 
Come to the place of prayer, 

And seal thy deathless vows to Him 
Who makes thy life his care. 

Doth he thy sunny skies 

O'ercloud with tempest gloom ? 
Or take the idol of thy breast, 

And hide it in the tomb? 

Or bid thy treasur'd joys 

In hopeless ruin lie ? 
Search not his reasons, — wait his will ; 

The record is on high. 

For should he strip thy heart 

Of all it boasts on earth, 
And set thee naked and alone, 

As at thy day of birth, 

He cannot do thee wrong, 
Those gifts were his at first, — 



43 



Draw nearer to his changeless throne, 
Bow deeper in the dust. 

Calls he thy parting soul 
Unbodied from the throng ? 

Cling closer to thy Saviour's cross, 
And raise the victor song. 



44 



THE DYING MOTHER'S PRAYER. 



I heard the voice of prayer— a mother's 
prayer — 
A dying mother for her only son. 
Young was his brow, and fair. 
Her hand was on his head, 
Her words of love were said, 
Her work was done. 

And there were other voices near her bed- 
Sweet, bird-like voices — for their mother dear 

Asking, with mournful tear. 
Ah, by whose hand shall those sad tears be 
dried, 
When one brief hour is fled, 
And hers shall pulseless rest, low with the silent 
dead? 

Yes, there was death's dark valley, drear and 
cold! 

And the hoarse dash of an o'erwhelming wave 
Alone she treads : is there no earthly hold, 

No friend — no helper — no strong arm to save ? 



THE DYING MOTHER'S PRATER. 45 

Down to the fearful grave, 
In the firm courage of a faith serene, 
Alone she press' d — 
And as she drew the chord 
That bound her to her Lord 
More closely round her breast, 
The white wing of the waiting angel spread 
More palpably, and earth's bright things grew 
pale. 
Even fond affection's wail 
Seemed like the far-off sigh of spring's forgotten 
gale. 

And so the mother's prayer, 
So often breathed above, 
In agonizing love, 
Rose high in praise of God's protecting care. 
Meek on his arm her infant charge she laid, 
And with a trusting eye, 
Of Christian constancy, 
Confiding in her blest Redeemer's aid, 

She taught the weeping band, 
Who round her couch of pain did stand, 

How a weak woman's hand, 
Fettered with sorrow and with sin, 
Might from the king of terrors win 
The victory. 



46 



CONSECRATION OF A CHURCH. 



" Lift up your heads, ye hallowed gates, and 

give 
The King of Glory room." 

And then a strain 
Of solemn trembling melody inquired, 
" Who is the King of Glory." 

But a sound 
Brake from the echoing temple, like the rush 
Of many waters, blent with organ's breath, 
And the soul's harp, and the uplifted voice 
Of prelate, and of people, and of priest, 
Responding joyously — " The Lord of Hosts, 
He is the King of Glory." 

Enter in 
To this his new abode, and with glad heart 
Kneel low before his footstool. Supplicate 
That favouring presence which doth condescend, 
From the pavilion of high heaven to beam 
On earthly temples, and in contrite souls. 

Here fade all vain distinctions that the pride 
Of man can arrogate. This house of prayer 



CONSECRATION OF A CHURCH. 47 

Doth teach that all are sinners — all have strayed 
Like erring sheep. The princely, or the poor, 
The bright or ebon brow, the pomp of power, 
The boast of intellect, what are they here ? 
Man sinks to ndthing,while he deals with God. 

Yet, let the grateful hymn of those who share 
A boundless tide of blessings — those who tread 
Their pilgrim path, rejoicing in the hope 
Of an ascended Saviour— through these walls 
For ever flow. Thou dedicated dome ! 
May'st thou in majesty and beauty stand: 
Stand, and give praise, until the rock-ribbed 

earth 
In her last throes shall tremble. Then dissolve 
Into thy native dust, with one long sigh 
Of melody, while the redeemed souls 
That, 'neath thine arch, to endless life were 

born, 
Go up, on wings of glory, to the "house 
Not made with hands." 



48 



THE CHRISTIAN GOING HOME. 



Occasioned by the words of a dying friend,— "Be- 
fore morning, I shall be at home." 



Home ! home ! its glorious threshold 

Through parted clouds I see, 
Those mansions by a Saviour bought, 

Where I have longed to be, 
And, lo ! a bright unnumbered host 

O'erspread the heavenly plain, 
Not one is silent — every harp 

Doth swell the adoring strain. 

Fain would my soul be praising 

Amid that sinless throng, 
Fain would my voice be raising 

Their everlasting song, — 
Hark ! hark ! they bid me hasten 

To leave the fainting clay, 
Friends ! hear ye not the welcome sound ? 

" Arise, and come away." 



THE CHRISTIAN GOING HOME. 49 

Before the dawn of morning 

These lower skies shall light, 
I shall have joined their company 

Above this realm of night, 
Give thanks, my mourning dear ones, 

Thanks to the Eternal King, 
Who crowns my soul with victory 

And plucks from Death the sting. 



50 



WAITING UPON THE LORD. 



"I will wait upon the Lord, that hideth his face.' 

Isaiah. 



Where'er thine earthly lot is cast, 

Whate'er its duties prove, 
To toil 'neath penury's piercing blast, 

Or share the cell of love, 
Or 'mid the pomp of wealth to live, 

Or wield of power the rod, 
Still as a faithful servant strive 

To wait alone on God. 

Should disappointment's blighting sway 

Destroy of joy the bloom, 
Till one by one thy hopes decay 

In darkness and the tomb, 
Should Heaven its cheering smile withhold 

From thy disastrous fate, 
And foes arise like billows bold, — 

Still, on Jehovah wait. 



WAITING UPON THE LORD. 51 

When timid dawn her couch forsakes, 

Or noon-day splendours glide, 
Or eve her curtain'd pillow takes, 

While watchful stars preside, 
Or midnight drives the throngs of care 

Far from her ebon throne, 
Unwearied in thy fervent prayer 

Wait thou on God alone. 

But should He still conceal his face 

Till flesh and spirit fail, 
And bid thee darkly run the race 

Of Time's receding vale, 
With what a doubly glorious ray 

His smile will light that sky 
Where ransom'd souls rejoicing lay 

Their robes of mourning by. 



52 



DEATH-BED OF THE REV. DR. 
PAYSON. 



"The eye spoke after the tongue became motion- 
less. Looking on his wife, and glancing over the 
others who surrounded his bed, it rested on his eldest 
son, with an expression which was interpreted by all 
present to say, as plainly as if he had uttered the 
words of the beloved disciple,— ' Behold thy mo- 
ther!' " 

Memoir of the Rev. Edward Payson. 



What said the eye ? The marble lip spake not, 
Save in that quivering sob with which stern 

death 
Crusheth life's harp-strings. Lo ! again it pours 
A tide of more than uttered eloquence — 
" Son! look upon thy mother," — and retires 
Beneath the curtain of the drooping lids 
To hide itself for ever. 'Tis the last, 
Last glance ! and, ah! how tenderly it fell 
Upon that loved companion, and the groups 






DEATH-BED OF THE REV. DR. PAYS0N. 53 

Who wept around. Full well the dying knew 
The value of those holy charities 
Which purge the dross of selfishness away ; 
And deep he felt that woman's trusting heart 
Rent from the cherished prop which, next to 

Christ, 
Had been her stay in all adversities, 
Would take the balm-cup best from that dear 

hand 
Which woke the sources of maternal love ; 
That smile whose winning paid for sleepless 

nights 
Of cradle-care — that voice whose murmured 

tones 
Her own had moulded to the words of prayer. 
How soothing to a widowed mother's breast, 
Her first-born's sympathy. 

Be strong, young man ! 
Lift the protector's arm, the healer's prayer — 
Be tender in thine every word and deed. 
A spirit watcheth thee ! Yes, he who pass'd 
From shaded earth up to the full-orbed day, 
Will be thy witness in the court of Heaven, 
How thou dost bear his mantle. So, farewell, 
Leader in Israel ! Thou whose radiant path 
Was like the angel's standing* in the sun, 
Undazzled and unswerving. It was meet 
That thou should' st rise to light without a cloud, 

* Revelations, xix., 17. 



54 



MISSION HYMN. 



Onward ! onward ! men of heaven, 

Rear the Gospel's banner high ; 
Rest not, till its light is given, — 

Star of every pagan sky. 
Bear it where the pilgrim-stranger 

Faints 'neath Asia's vertic ray ; 
Bid the red-browed forest-ranger 

Hail it, ere he fades away. 

Where the arctic ocean thunders, — 

Where the tropics fiercely glow, 
Broadly spread its page of wonders, 

Brightly bids its radiance flow. 
India marks its lustre, stealing, 

Shivering Greenland loves its rays, 
Afric, 'mid her deserts kneeling, 

Lifts the untaught strain of praise. 

Rude in speech, or grim in feature, 
Dark in spirit though they be, 

Show that light to every creature, — 
Prince or vassal, — bond or free. — 



MISSION HYMN. 55 

Lo ! they haste to every nation ; 

Host on host the ranks supply ; 
Onward ! Christ is your salvation, — 

And your death is victory ! 



56 



ON MEETING SEVERAL FORMER 

PUPILS AT THE COMMUNION 

TABLE. 



"I have no greater joy than to see my children 
walk in the truth." — St. John. 



When kneeling round a Saviour's board 
Fair forms, and brows belov'd, I see, 

Who once the paths of peace explor'd, 
And trac'd the studious page with me, — 

Who from my side with pain would part ; 

My entering step with gladness greet, 
And pour complacent, o'er my heart, 

Affection's dew-drops, pure and sweet, 

When now, from each remember' d face 
Beam tranquil hope and trust benign, 

When in each eye Heaven's smile I trace, 
The tear of joy suffuses mine. 



MEETING- AT THE COMMUNION TABLE. 57 

Father ! I bless thy ceaseless care, 
Which thus its holiest gifts hath shed ; 

Guide Thou their steps through every snare, 
From every danger shield their head. 

From treacherous error's dire control, — 
From pride, from change, from darkness free, 

Preserve each timorous, trusting soul, 
That, like the ark-dove, flies to Thee. 

And may the wreath that cloudless days 
Around our hearts so fondly wove, 

Still bind us till we speak Thy praise, 
As sister spirits, one in love ; — 

One, where no lingering ill can harm ; 

One, where no stroke of fate can sever; 
Where nought but holiness doth charm, 

And all that charms shall live for ever. 



58 



THE LOST SISTER. 



They wak'd me from my sleep, I knew no1 

why, 
And bade me hasten where a midnight lamp 
Gleam' d from an inner chamber. There she 

lay, 

With brow so pale, — who yester-morn breath'd 

forth 
Through joyous smiles her superflux of bliss 
Into the hearts of others. By her side 
Her hoary sire, with speechless sorrow, gazed 
Upon the stricken idol, — all dismay' d 
Beneath his God's rebuke. And she who nurs'd 
That fair young creature at her gentle breast, 
And oft those sunny locks had deck'd with buds 
Of rose and jasmine, shuddering wip'd the dews 
Which death distils. 

The sufferer just had given 
Her long farewell, and for the last, last time 
Touch' d with cold lips his cheek who led so late 
Her footsteps to the altar, and receiv'd 
In the deep transport of an ardent heart 
Her vow of love. And she had striven to press 



THE LOST SISTER. 59 

That golden circlet with her bloodless hand 
Back on his finger, which he kneeling gave 
At the bright, bridal morn. So, there she lay 
In calm endurance, like the smitten lamb 
Wounded in flowery pastures, from whose breast 
The dreaded bitterness of death had pass'd. 
— But a fault wail disturb' d the silent scene, 
And, in its nurse's arms a new-born babe 
Was borne in utter helplessness along, 
Before that dying eye. 

Its gather' d film 
Kindled one moment with a sudden glow 
Of tearless agony, — and fearful pangs, 
Racking the rigid features, told how strong 
A mother's love doth root itself. One cry 
Of bitter anguish, blent with fervent prayer, 
Went up to Heaven, — and, as its cadence sank, 
Her spirit enter' d there. 

Morn after morn 
Rose and retir'd ; yet still as in a dream 
I seem'd to move. The certainty of loss 
Fell not at once upon me. Then I wept 
As weep the sisterless. — For thou wert fled, 
My only, my belov'd, my sainted one, — 
Twin of my spirit ! and my number' d days 
Must wear the sable of that midnight hour 
Which rent thee from me. 



60 



MISTAKEN GRIEF. 



"There the wicked cease from troubling, and there 
the weary are at rest." Job. 



We mourn for those who toil, 

The wretch who ploughs the main, 
The slave who hopeless tills the soil 

Beneath the stripe and chain ; 
For those who in the world's hard race, 

O'erwearied and unblest, 
A host of gliding phantoms chase ; 

Why mourn for those who rest ? 

We mourn for those who sin, 

Bound in the tempter's snare, 
Whom syren pleasure beckoneth in 

To prisons of despair, — 
Whose hearts, by whirlwind passions torn, 

Are wreck'd on folly's shore, 
But why in anguish should we mourn 

For those who sin no more ? 



MISTAKEN GRIEF. 61 

We mourn for those who weep, 

Whom stern afflictions bend, 
Despairing o'er the lowly sleep 

Of lover or of friend ; 
But they who Jordan's swelling tide 

No more are call'd to stem, 
Whose tears the hand of God hath dried, 

Why should we mourn for them ? 



62 



DEPARTURE OF MISSIONARIES 
FOR CEYLON. 



Wave, wide Ceylon, your foliage fair, 
Your spicy fragrance freely strew, 

See, ocean's threatening surge we dare, 
To bear salvation's gift to you. 

And, ye who long with faithful hand 
Have fondly till* d. that favour' d soil, 

We come, we come, a brother-band 
To share the burden of your toil. 

Land of our birth ! we may not stay 
The ardour of our hearts to tell, 

Friends of our youth ! we dare not say 
How deep within our souls ye dwell. 

But when the dead, both small and great, 
Shall stand before the Judge's seat, 

When sea, and sky, and earthly state, 
All like a baseless vision fleet, 



DEPARTURE OF MISSIONARIES FOR CEYLON. 63 

The hope that then some heathen eye 
Thro' us, an angel's glance may raise, 

Bids us to vanquish nature's tie, 
And turn her parting tear to praise. 



64 



CRY OF THE CORANNAS. 



" Missionaries are going far beyond us,— but they 
come not to us. We have been promised a mission- 
ary, but can get none. God has given us plenty of 
corn, but we are perishing for want of instruction. 
Our people are dying every day. We have heard 
there is another life after death, but we know no- 
thing of it." 



We see our infants fade. The mother clasps 
The enfeebled form, and watches night and day 
Its speechless agony, with tears and cries, 
But there's a hand more strong than her despair, 
That rends it from her bosom. Our young men 
Are bold and full of strength, but something 

comes, 
We know not what, and so they droop and die. 
Those whom we lov'd so much, our gentler 

friends, 
Who bless our homes, we gaze, and they are 

gone. 



CRY OF THE CORANNAS. 65 

Our mighty chiefs, who in the battle's rage 
Tower'd up like gods, so fearless, and retum'd 
So loftily, behold ! they pine away 
Like a pale girl, and so, we lay them down 
With the forgotten throng, who dwell in dust. 

They call it death, and we have faintly heard 

By a far echo o'er the distant sea 

There was a life beyond it. Is it so ? 

If there be aught above this mouldering mound 

Where we do leave our friends, — if there be 

hope, 
So passing strange, that they should rise again 
And we should see them, we who mourn them 

now, 
We pray you speak such glorious tidings forth 
In our benighted clime. Ye heaven-spread sails 
Pass us not by ! Men of the living God ! 
Upon our mountain-heights we stand and shout 
To you in our distress. Fain would we hear 
Your wondrous message fully, that our hearts 
May hail its certainty, before we go 
Ourselves to those dark caverns of the dead, 
Where everlasting silence seems to reign. 



66 



GIFT OF A BIBLE. 



Behold the book, — o'er which, from ancient 
time, 
Sad penitence hath poured the prayerful 
breath, 
And meek devotion bowed with joy sublime, 

And nature armed her for the strife of death, 
And trembling hope renewed her wreath divine, 
And faith an anchor gained : — that holy book is 
thine. 

Behold the book, — whose sacred truths to 
spread 
Christ's heralds toil beneath a foreign sky, 
Pouring its blessings o'er the heathen's head, 

A martyr- courage kindling in their eye. 
Wide o'er the globe its glorious light must shine, 
As glows the arch of heaven : — that holy book is 
thine. 

Here search with humble heart, and ardent eye, 
Where plants of peace in bloom celestial 
grow; 



GIFT OF A BIBLE. 67 

Here breathe to mercy's ear the contrite sigh, 
And bid the soul's unsullied fragrance flow 
To Him who shuts the rose at even- tide, 
And opes its dewy eye when earliest sunbeams 
glide 

May Heaven's pure Spirit touch thy soften' d 
heart, 
And guide thy feet through life's eventful lot : 
That when from this illusive scene I part, 

And in the grave lie mouldering and forgot, 
This, my first gift, like golden link, may join 
Thee, to that angel-band around the Throne 
Divine. 



68 



HOME MISSIONS. 



Tukn thee to thine own broad waters, 

Labor in thy native earth, 
Call salvation's sons and daughters 

From the clime that gave thee birth. 

Here are pilgrim-souls benighted, 

Here are evils to be slain, 
Graces in their budding blighted, 

Spirits bound in error's chain. 

Raise the Gospel's glorious streamer 
Where yon cloud-topp'd forest waves, 

Follower of the meek Redeemer 
Serve him 'mid thy father's graves. 



ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND. 



She passeth hence, — a friend from loving friends, 
A mother from her children. Time hath shed 
No frost upon her, and the tree of life 
Glows in the freshness of its summer prime. — 
Yet still she passeth hence : her work on earth 
Soon done, and well. Her's was the unwavering 

mind, 
The untiring hand in duty. Firm of soul 
And pure in purpose, on the Eternal Rock 
Of Christian trust, her energies reposed, 
And sought no tribute from a shadowy world. 
Her early hope and homage clave to God, 
When the bright skies, the untroubled founts of 

youth, 
With all their song-birds, all their flowers, 

rose up 
To tempt her spirit. So, in hours of pain, 
He did remember her, and on her brow 
And in her breast, the dove-like messenger 
Found peaceful home. 

O thou, whom grieving love 
Would blindly pinion in this vale of tears, 



70 ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND. 

Farewell ! It is a glorious flight for faith 
To trace thy upward path, above this clime 
Of change and storm. We will remember thee 
At thy turf-bed, — and, 'mid the twilight hour 
Of solemn music, when the buried friend 
Comes back so visibly, and seems to fill 
The vacant chair, our speech shall be of thee. 



71 



THE JOURNEY WITH THE DEAD. 



They journey 'neath the summer sky, 

A lov'd and loving train, 
But Nature spreads her genial charms 

To lure their souls in vain, 
Husband and wife and child are there, 

Warm-hearted, true and kind, 
Yet every kindred lip is seal'd, 

And every head declin'd. 

Weary and sad, their course is bent 

To seek an ancient dome, 
Where hospitality hath made 

A long-re member' d home ; 
And one with mournful care they bring 

Whose footstep erst was gay 
Amid'these halls ; why comes she now 

In sorrow's dark array ? 

Here fell a sainted grandsire's prayer 

Upon her infant rest, 
And with the love of ripen' d years 

The cherish' d haunt was blest ; 



72 JOURNEY WITH THE DEAD. 

Here was the talisman that bade 
Her heart's blood sparkle high, 

Why steals no flush across her cheek ? 
No lightning to her eye ? 

They bear her to the house of God, 

But though that hallow' d spot 
Is fill'd with prayer from lips she lov'd 

Her voice respondeth not, 
She heedeth not, she heedeth not, 

She, who from early days 
Had joy'd within that holy Church, 

To swell Jehovah's praise. 

Then onward toward a narrow cell 

They tread the grass-grown track, 
From whence the unreturning guest 

Doth send no tidings back ; 
There sleeps the grandsire high and brave 

In freedom's battles tried,* 
With him whose banner was the cros3 

Of Jesus crucified. 

Down by those hoary chiefs she laid 

Her young, unfrosted head, 
To rise no more, until the voice 

Of Jesus wakes the dead, 



* General Putnam. 



JOURNEY WITH THE DEAD. 73 

From her own dear, domestic bower, 

From deep, confiding love, 
From earth's unshaded smile, she turn'd 

To purer bliss above. 



71 



PRISONERS' EVENING HYMN. 

WRITTEN FOR THE FEMALES IN THE CONNECTI- 
CUT STATE PRISON. 



The silent curtains of the night 

Our lonely cell surround, 
God's dwelling is in perfect light, 

His mercy hath no bound. 

Still on the sinful and the vile 

His daily bounties fall, 
And still his sun with cheering smile 

Dispenses good to all. 

The way of wickedness is hard, 

Its bitter fruits we know, 
Shame in this world is its reward, 

And in the future, woe. 

But Thou ! who see'st us while we pay 

The penance of our guilt, 
Cast not our souls condemn'd away, 

Christ's blood for us was spilt. 



prisoners' evening hymn. 75 

Deep root within a soil subdued 

Let true repentance take, 
"And be its fruits a life renew' d, 

For the Redeemer's sake. 

Uplift our spirits from the ground, 
§ Give to our darkness, light. 

Oh thou! whose mercies have no bound, 
Preserve us safe this night. 



76 



THE HUGUENOT PASTOR. 



During the persecution of the Huguenots in France, 
soon after the revocation of the edict of Nantz, one 
of their ministers, possessed of great learning and 
piety, having witnessed the demolition of his own 
Church at Montpelier, was induced by the solicita- 
tions of his people, to preach to them in the night, 
upon its ruins. For this offence, he was condemned 
to be broken on the wheel. 



Behold him on the ruins, — not of fanes 
With ivy mantled, which the touch of time 
Hath slowly crumbled, — but amid the wreck 
Of his own temple, by infuriate hands 
In shapeless masses, and rude fragments strown 
Wide o'er the trampled turf. Serene he stood, 
A pale, sad beauty on his youthful brow, 
With eyes uprais'd, as if his stricken soul 
Fled from material things. Where was the spire 
That solemn through those chestnut trees looked 

forth ? 
The tower, the arch, the altar, whence he bless' d 



THE HUGUENOT PASTOR. - 77 

A kneeling throng? the font where infancy 
Rais'd in his arms to God was consecrate, 
An incense-breathing bud ? Not on such themes 
Dar'd his fond thoughts to dwell, but firm in 

faith 
He lifted up his voice and spake of Heaven, 
Where desolations come not. 

Midnight hung 
Dreary and dense around, and the lone lamp 
That o'er his Bible stream' d, hung tremulous 
Beneath the fitful gale. 

There, resting deep 
Upon the planted staff, were aged men, 
The grave's white tokens in their scatter'd hair, 
And youthful forms, with gaze intensely fix'd 
On their beloved Pastor, as he taught 
Of Christ their righteousness, while here and 

there 
A group of mourning mothers from whose arms 
Their babes by persecution's rage were torn 
Blent with their listening, the low sob of grief. 
Close by their father's knees young children 

cower' d 
And in each echoing footstep fear'd a foe. 
— It was a time of trouble, and the flock 
Came hungering for the heavenly bread which 

gives 
Strength to the heavy laden. 'Twas a scene 
That France might well have wept with tears 

of blood 



7b THE HUGUENOT PASTOR. 

But in the madness of a dire disease 

She slew her loyal sons, and urg'd the sword 

' Gainst her own vitals. 

Lo ! the dawn is out, 
With her grey banner, and the parting flock 
Seek, their own homes, praising the Hand that 

spares 
Their faithful shepherd. Silent evening wakes 
Far different orgies. Yonder mangled form 
Sinking 'neath murderous fury, can ye trace 
Its lineaments of beauty, 'mid the wreck 
Of anguish and distortion ? Son of God ! 
Is this thy messenger, whose voice so late 
Thrill'd with an angel's sweetness, as it pour'd 
Thy blessing on the people ? 

Yet, be still, 
And breathe no bitter thought above his dust, 
Who served the Prince of Peace. The spirit of 

love 
Did make that lifeless breast its temple-shrine, 
Offend it not. But raise with tender hand 
Those blood-stain'd curls, and shed the pitying 

tear. 
— That marble lip no more can bless its foes, 
But from the wreck of martyrdom, the soul 
Hath risen in radiance, o'er the strife of man. 



79 



THIS IS NOT YOUR REST." 



When Heaven's unerring pencil writes, on every 

pilgrim's breast, 
Its passport to Time's changeful shore, " lo, this 

is not your rest" 
Why build ye towers, ye fleeting ones? why 

bowers of fragrance rear ? 
As if the self-deceiving soul might find its Eden 

here. 

In vain ! In vain ! wild storms will rise and o'er 

your fabrics sweep, 
Yet when loud thunders wake the wave, and 

deep replies to deep, 
When in your path, Hope's broken prism doth 

shed its parting ray, 
Spring up and fix your tearful eye on undeclining 

day. 

If like an ice-bolt to the heart, frail Friendship's 

altered eye 
Admits those rosy wreaths are dead, it promis'd 

could not die, 



80 "this is not your rest." 

Lift, lift to an Eternal Friend, the agonizing 

prayer, 
The souls that put their trust in Him, shall never 

know despair. 

If Fancy, she who bids young Thought, its 

freshest incense bring, 
By stern reality rebuk'd, should fold her stricken 

wing, 
There is a brighter, broader realm than she has 

yet reveal'd, 
From flesh-girt man's exploring eye, and anxious 

ear conceal' d. 

Earth is Deatlis palace : to his court he sum- 
mons great and small, 

The crown'd, the homeless and the slave, are 
but his minions all ; 

We turn us shrinking from the truth, the close 
pursuit we fly, 

But faulter on the grave's dark brink, and lay 
us down and die. 



£1 



THE SECOND BIRTH-DAY. 



Thou dost not dream, my little one, 

How great the change must be, 
These two years, since the morning sun 

First shed his beams on thee ; 
Thy lktle hands did helpless fall, 

As with a stranger's fear, 
And a faint wailing cry was all 

That met thy mother's ear. 

But now the dictates of thy will 

Thine active feet obey, 
And, pleased, thy busy fingers still 

Among thy playthings stray; 
And thy full eyes delighted rove 

The pictured page along, 
And, lisping to the heart of love, 

Thy thousand wishes throng. 

Fair boy ! the wanderings of thy way, 

It is not mine to trace : 
Through buoyant youth's exulting day, 

Or manhood's bolder race : 
6 



82 THE SECOND BIRTH-DAY. 

What discipline thy heart may need, 
What clouds may veil thy sun, 

The eye of God alone can read— 
And let his will be done. 

Yet might a mother's prayer of love 

Thy destiny control, 
Those boasted gifts that often prove 

The ruin of the soul, 
Beauty and fortune, wit and fame, 

For thee it would not crave, 
But tearful urge a fervent claim 

To joys beyond the grave. 

O ! be thy wealth an upright heart, 

Thy strength the sufferer's stay, 
Thine early choice, that better part, 

Which cannot fade away ; 
Thy zeal for Christ a quenchless fire, 

Thy friends the men of peace, 
Thy heritage an angel's lyre, 

When earthly changes cease. 



S3 



DEATH OF A CLERGYMAN. 



So, from the field of labour thou art gone 
To thy reward, — like him who putteth off 
His outer garment, at the noontide hour, 
To take a quiet sleep. Thy zeal hath run 
Its course untiring, and thy quicken' d love, 
Where'er thy Master pointed, joy'd to go. 

—Amid thy faithful toil, His summons came, 
Warning thee home, — and thou didst loose thy 

heart 
From thy fond flock, and from affection's bonds, 
And from thy blessed children's warm embrace, 
With smiles and songs of praise. 

Death smote thee sore, 
And plung'd his keen shaft in the quivering 

nerve, 
Making the breath that stirr'd life's broken 

valve 
A torturing gasp, but with thy martyrdom 
Were smiles and songs of praise. 



84 DEATH OF A CLERGYMAN. 

And thou didst rise 
Above the pealing of these sabbath bells 
Up to that glorious and unspotted church 
Whose worship is eternal. 

Would that all 
Who love our Lord might with thy welcome 

look. 
On the last foe, — not as a spoiler, sent 
To wreck their treasures and to blast their joys, 
But as a friend, who wraps the weary clay 
With earth, its mother, and doth raise the soul 
To that blest consummation, which its prayers 
Unceasingly besought, — tho' its best hopes 
But faintly shadow'd forth. 

So, tho' we hear 
Thy voice on earth no more, — the holy hymn 
With which thou down to Jordan's shore didst go 
To take thy last, cold baptism, still shall waft 
As from some cloud, its echoed sweetness back 
To teach us of the melody of heaven. 



85 



DEPART, CHRISTIAN SOUL. 



Depart ! depart ! the silver cord is breaking, 
The sun-ray fades before the darken' d sight, 

The subtle essence from the clod is taking, 
'Mid groans and pangs, its everlasting flight ; 

Lingerest thou fearful ? Christ the grave hath 
bless'd, 

He in that lowly couch did deign to take his rest. 

Depart ! thy sojourn here hath been in sorrow, 
Tears were thy meat along the thorn-clad 
path, 
The hope of eve was but a clouded morrow, 

And sin appall' d thee with thy Maker's wrath, 
Earth gave her lessons in a tempest- voice. 
Thy discipline is ended. Chasten'd one, re- 
joice ! 

Thou wert a stranger here, and all thy trouble 
To bind a wreath upon the brow of pain, 



8b "DEPART, CHRISTIAN SOUL. 

To build a bower upon the watery bubble, 
Or strike an anchor 'neath its depths, was 

vain; 
Depart ! depart ! all tears are wiped away, 
The seraph -marshall'd road is toward the realm 

of day. 



87 



THE FOREST TRIBES. 



Where are they, the forest-rangers, 

Children of this western-land ? 
Who, to greet the pale-fac'd strangers, 

Stretch'd the unsuspecting hand ? 
Where are they, whom passion goaded 

Madly to the unequal fight, 
Tossing wild the feathery arrow 

'Gainst the girded warrior's might? 

Were not these their own bright waters ? 

Were not these their native skies ? 
Rear'd they not their red- brow' d daughters 

Where our princely mansions rise? 
From the vale their roofs have vanish'd, 

From these streams their slight canoe ; 
Chieftains and their tribes have perish'd, 

Like the thickets where they grew. 

Though their blood, no longer gushing, 
Wakeneth war's discordant cry, 



88 THE FOREST TRIBES. 

Stains it not the maple's flushing 
When sad Autumn's step is nigh ? — 

None are living to deplore them, — 
None survive their names to tell, — 

But the sad breeze murmuring o'er them, 
Seems to sigh " farewell — farewell." 



69 



DEATH OF A DISTINGUISHED MAN. 



Death's shafts are ever busy. The fair haunts 
Where least we dread him, and where most the 

soul 
Doth lull itself to fond security, 
Reveal his ministry ; and, were not man 
Blind to the future, he might see the sky, 
Even in the glory of its cloudless prime, 
Dark with that arrow-flight. 

They deemed it so 
Who marked thee like a stately column fall, 
And in the twinkling of an eye, yield back 
Thy breath to Him who gave it. Yes, — they 

felt, 
Who saw thy vigorous footstep strangely 

chained 
Upon the turf it traversed, and the cheek, 
Flushed high with health, to mortal paleness 

turn'd, 
How awful such a rush from time must be. 
Thy brow was calm, yet deep within thy breast 
Were ranklings of a recent grief for her, 



90 DEATH OF A DISTINGUISHED MAN. 

The idol of thy tenderness, with whom 
Life had been one long scene of changeless love* 
Yea, thou didst watch the winged messenger 
In sleepless agony that bore her hence, — 
And, when that bright eve darken' d from whose 

beams 
Thine own had drank from youth its dearest 

joy, 
Upraised thine hands and gave her back to God. 
The bleeding of thy heart-strings was not 

stanched, 
Nor scarce the tear-gush dried, ere death's dire 

frost 
Congeal' d thy fount of life. 

Thy toil had been, 
In that brief interval, to bear fresh plants 
From the sweet garden which she loved to tend, 
And bid them on her burial-pillow bloom. 
But, ere the young rose, or the willow-tree, 
Had taken their simplest rooting, thou wert laid 
Low by her side. It was a pleasant place 
Methought to rest, — earth's weary labour done, 
Fanned by the waving of those drooping boughs, 
And in her company whom thou didst choose, 
From all the world, to travel by thy side, 
Confidingly, — by deep affection cheer'd, 
And in thy faith a sharer. 

From the haunts 
Of living men, thine image may not fleet 
Noteless away. They will remember thee, 



DEATH OF A DISTINGUISHED MAN. 91 

By many a word of witness for the truth, 
And many a deed of bounty. In the sphere 
Of those sublimer charities that gird 
The mind — the soul — thine was the ready hand : 
And for the hasting of that day of peace 
Which sheathes the sword, thine was the earnest 
prayer. 

In thine own house and in the church of God 
There will be weeping for thee. Thou no more 
Around thine altar shalt delight to see 
Thy children, and thy children's children, come 
To take thy patriarch blessing, — and no more 
Bring duly to yon consecrated courts 
Thy sabbath offering. Thou hast gained the 

rest 
Which earthly sabbaths dimly shadow forth, 
And to that ransomed family art risen 
Which have no need of prayer. 

But thou, man ! 
Whose hold on life is like the spider's web, 
Who hast thy footing 'mid so many snares, 
So many pitfalls, yet perceivest them not, — 
Seek peace with Him who made thee, — bind 

the shield 
Of faith in Christ more firmly o'er thy breast, 
That, when its pulse stands still, thy soul may 

pass, 
Unshrinking, unreluctant, unamazed, 
Into the fulness of the light of Heaven. 



PARTING HYMN OF MISSIONARIES 
TO BURMAH. 



Native Land ! in summer smiling, — 

Hill and valley, grove and stream,— 
Home ! whose nameless charms beguiling 

Peaceful lull'd our infant dream, — 
Haunts ! thro' which our childhood hasted 

Where the earliest wild-flowers grew, 
Church ! where God's free grace we tasted, 

Gems on Memory's breast,— adieu. 

Mother ! who hast watch' d our pillow, 

In thy tender, sleepless love, — 
Lo, — we dare the crested billow, — 

Mother ! — put thy trust above ; — 
Father ! from thy guidance turning, 

O'er the deep our way we take, — 
Keep the prayerful incense burning 

On thine altar for our sake. 

Brothers ! sisters ! more than ever 
Seem our clinging heart-strings twin'd, 



PARTHIG HYMN OF MISSIONARIES. 93 

As that hallow'd bond we sever 
Which the hand of nature join'd : 

But the cry of pagan anguish 
Thro' our inmost hearts doth sound, 

Countless souls in misery languish, 
We would haste to heal their wound. 

Burmah ! we would soothe thy weeping, 

Take us to thy sultry breast, 
Where the sainted few are sleeping, 

Let us share a kindred rest : 
Friends ! our span of life is fleeting, 

Hark ! the harps of angels swell, 
Think of that eternal meeting 

Where no voice shall say farewell. 



BABE BEREAVED OF ITS MOTHER. 



Fair is the tint of bloom, 

That decks thy brow, my child ; 
And bright thine eye looks forth from sleep, 

Still eloquent and mild ; 
But she, who would have joy'd 

Those opening charms to see, 
And clasp' d thee in her sheltering arms 

With rapture — where is she ? 

To heed thine every want 

The watch of Love is near, 
And all thy feeble plaints are heard 

With sympathy sincere ; 
Yet she, to whom that care 

Had been most deeply dear, 
Who bare thee on her ceaseless prayer, 

The mother — is not here. 

Soon will these lips of rose 

Their new-born speech essay, 
But when thy little hopes and fears 

Win forth their lisping way, 



BABE BEREAVED OF ITS MOTHER. 95 

The ear that would have lov'd 

Their dove-like music best, 
Lies mouldering in the lowly bed 

Of death's unbroken rest. 

Babe ! — tho' thou may'st not call 

Thy mother from the dead, 
Yet canst thou learn the way she went, 

And in her footsteps tread ; 
For sure that path will lead 

Up to a glorious home, 
Where happy spirits never part, 

And evil cannot come. ■ 

Her's was the hope that glows 

Unwavering and serene, 
The chasten' d spirit's meek repose 

In every changeful scene ; 
Her's was the victor-power 

When mortal anguish came, — 
Child ! — be thy holy trust thro' life, 

Thy peace in death, the same. 



96 



"WHITHER SHALL I FLEE FROM 
THY PRESENCE."— David. 



Take morning's wing, and fly from zone to 

zone, 
To earth's remotest pole, and, ere old Time 
Can shift one figure on his dial-plate, 
Haste to the frigid Thule of mankind, 
Where the scant life-drop freezes. Or go down 
To Ocean's secret caverns, 'mid the throng 
Of monsters without number, which no foot 
Of man hath visited, and yet returned 
To walk among the living. Or the shroud 
Of midnight wrap around thee, dense and deep, 
Bidding thy spirit slumber. 

Plop' st thou thus 
To 'scape the Almighty, to whose piercing eye 
Morn's robe and midnight's vestments are the 

same? 
Spirit of truth !— - why should we seek to hide 
Motive or deed from thee ? — why strive to walk 
In a vain show before our fellow- men ? 
Since at the same dread audit each must stand, 



"WHITHER SHALL I FLEE.' VI 

And with a sun-ray read his brother's breast 
While his own thoughts are weighed ? 

Search thou my soul ! 
And, if aught evil lurks securely there 
Like Achan's stolen hoard, command it thence, 
And hold me up in singleness of heart, 
And simple, child-like confidence in Thee, 
Till time shall close his labyrinth, and ope 
Eternity's broad gate. 



THE INDIAN'S WELCOME TO THE 
PILGRIM FATHERS. 



" On Friday, March 16th, 1622, while the colonists 
were busied in their usual labors, they were much 
surprised to see a savage walk boldly towards them, 
and salute them with, 'much welcome, English, 
much welcome, Englishmen.' " 



Above them spread a stranger sky 

Around, the sterile plain, 
The rock-bouhd coast rose frowning nigh, 

Beyond, — the wrathful main : 
Chill remnants of the wintry snow 

Still chok'd the encumber' d soil, 
Yet forth those Pilgrim Fathers go, 

To mark their future toil. 

'Mid yonder vale their corn must rise 

In summer's ripening pride, 
And there the church-spire woo the skies 

Its sister-school beside. 



the Indian's welcome. 99 

Perchance 'raid England's velvet green 
Some tender thought repos'd, — 

Though nought upon their stoic mien 
Such soft regret disclos'd. 

When sudden from the forest wide 

A red-brow' d chieftain came, 
With towering form, and haughty stride, 

And eye like kindling flame : 
No wrath he breath' d, no conflict sought, 

To no dark ambush drew, 
But simply to the Old World brought, 

The welcome of the New. 

That welcome was a blast and ban 

Upon thy race unborn. 
Was there no seer, thou fated Man ! 

Thy lavish zeal to warn ? 
Thou in thy fearless faith didst hail 

A weak, invading band, 
But who shall heed thy children's wail, 

Swept from their native land ? 

Thou gav'st the riches of thy streams, 

The lordship o'er thy waves, 
The region of thine infant dreams, 

And of thy father's graves, 
But who to yon proud mansions pil'd 

With wealth of earth and sea, 
Poor outcast from thy forest wild, 

Say, who shall welcome thee ? 



100 



BIRTH-DAY OF THE FIRST-BORN. 



Thy first-born's birth-day. Mother! 

That well-remember'd time 
Returneth, when thy heart's deep joy 

Swell' d to its highest prime. 

Thou hast another treasure, 
There in the cradle-shrine, 

And she who near its pillow plays, 
With cheek so fair, is thine. 

But still, thy brow is shaded, 
The fresh tear trickleth free, 

Where is that first-born darling? 
Young Mother, where is she ? 

And, if she be in heaven, 

She, who with goodness fraught, 
So early on her Father- God 

Repos'd her trusting thought, 

And, if she be in heaven, 

The honour how divine, 
To yield an angel to his arms 

Who gave a babe to thine. 



101 



THE HALF-CENTURY SERMON. 



Look back, look back, ye grey-hair'd worship- 
pers, 
Who to this hill-top fifty years ago 
Came up .with solemn joy. Withdraw the folds 
Which curtaining time hath gather 1 d o'er the 

scene, 
And show its colouring. The dark cloud of 

war 
Faded to fitful sun-light, — on the ear, 
The rumour of red battle died away, 
And there was Peace in Zion. So a throng 
O'er a faint carpet of the spring's first green 
Were seen in glad procession hasting on, 
To set a watchman on these sacred walls. 
Each eye upon his consecrated brow 
Was fondly fix'd, for in its pallid hue, 
In its deep, thought-worn, spiritual lines, 
They trac'd the mission of the crucified, 
The hope of Israel. High the anthem swell' d, 
Ascribing glory to the Lord of Hosts, 
Who in his bounteous goodness thus vouchsaf d 
To beautify his temple. 



102 THE HALF- CENTURY SERMON. 

The same strain 
Riseth once more ; but where are they who 

pour'd 
Its tones melodious, on that festal day ? 
Young men and maidens of the tuneful lip, 
The bright in beauty, and the proud in strength, 
With bosoms fluttering to illusive hope, 
Where are they ? Can ye tell, ye hoary ones, 
Who, few, and feebly leaning on the staff, 
Bow down, where erst with manhood's lofty 

port 
Ye tower' d as columns? They have sunk 

away, 
Brethren and sisters, from your empty grasp, 
Like bubbles on the pool, and ye are left, 
With life's long lessons furrow' d on your brow. 

Change worketh all around you. The lithe 

twig 
That in your boyhood ye did idly bend 
Maketh broad shadow, and the forest-king, 
Arching majestic o'er your school-day sports, 
Mouldereth, to sprout no more. The little babe 
Ye as a plaything dandled, of whose frame 
Perchance ye spake as most exceeding frail 
And prone to perish like the flower of grass, 
Doth nurse his children's children on his knee. 

— But still your ancient shepherd's voice ye 
hear, 



THE HALF-CENTURY SERMON. 103 

Tho' age hath quell'd its power, and well those 

tones 
Of serious, saintly tenderness do stir 
The springs of love and reverence. As your 

guide 
He in the heavenward path hath firmly walk'd, 
Bearing your joys and sorrows in his breast, 
And on his prayers. He at your household 

hearths 
Hath spoke his Master's message, while your 

babes, 
Listening, imbibed as blossoms drink the dew ; 
And when your dead were buried from your 

sight, 
Was he not there ? 

His scatter' d locks are white 
With the hoar-frost of time, but in his soul 
There is no winter. He, the uncounted gold 
Of many a year's experience richly spreads 
To a new generation, and methinks 
With high prophetic brow doth stand sublime 
Like Moses 'tween the living and the dead, 
To make atonement. God's unclouded smile 
Sustain thee, patriarch ! like a flood of light 
Still brightening, till, with those whom thou hast 

taught 
And warn'd in wisdom, and with weeping love 
Led to the brink of Calvary's cleansing stream, 
Thou strike the victor harp o'er sin and death. 



]04 



DEATH OF A BEAUTIFUL BOY. 



I saw thee at thy mother's side, when she was 

marble cold, 
And thou wert like some cherub form, cast in 

ethereal mould ; 
But, when the sudden pang of grief oppressed 

thine infant thought, 
And 'mid thy clear and radiant eye a liquid 

crystal wrought, 
I thought how strong that faith must be that 

breaks a mother's tie, 
And bids her leave her darling's tears for other 

hands to dry. 

I saw thee in thine hour of sport, beside thy 

father's bower, 
Amid his broad and bright parterre, thyself the 

fairest flower, 
I heard thy tuneful voice ring out upon the 

summer air, 
As though some bird of Eden poured its joyous 

carol there, 



DEATH OF A BEAUTIFUL BOY. 105 

And lingered with delighted gaze on happy 

childhood's charms, 
Which once the blest Redeemer loved, and 

folded in his arms. 

I saw thee scan the classic page, with high and 

glad surprise, 
And saw the sun of science beam, as on an 

eaglet's eyes, 
And marked thy strong and brilliant mind 

arouse to bold pursuit, 
And from the tree of knowledge pluck its 

richest, rarest fruit ; 
Yet still from such precocious power I shrank 

with secret fear, 
A shuddering presage that thy race must soon 

be ended here. 

I saw thee in the house of God, and loved the 

reverent air 
With which thy beauteous head was bowed low 

in thy guileless prayer, 
Yet little deemed how soon thy place would be 

with that blest band 
Who ever near the Eternal Throne, in sinless 

worship, stand; 
Ah, little deemed how soon the tomb must lock 

thy glorious charms, 
And wing thine ardent soul to find a sainted 

mother's arms. 



106 



FOREIGN MISSIONS. 



Up, at the Gospel's glorious call! 

Country and kindred what are they ? 
Rend from thy heart, these charmers, all, 

Christ needs thy service, hence away. 

Tho' free the parting tear may rise, 
Tho' high may roll the boisterous wave, 

Go, find thy home 'neath foreign skies, 
And shroud thee in a stranger's grave. 

Perchance, the HinaWs languid child, 
The infant at the Burman's knee, 

The shiverer in the arctic wild, 
Shall bless the Eternal Sire for thee. 

And what hath Earth compar'd to this ? 

Knows she of wealth or joy like thine ? 
The ransom'd heathen's heavenly bliss, 

The plaudit of the Judge divine ? 



107 



EVENING THOUGHTS. * 



Come to thy lonely bower, thou who dost love 
The hour of musing. Come, before the brow 
Of twilight darkens, or the solemn stars 
Look from their casement. 'Mid that hush of 

soul, 
Music from viewless harps shall visit thee, 
Such as thou never heard' st amid the din 
Of earth's coarse enginery, by toil and care 
Urged on, without reprieve. Ah! kneel and 

catch 
That tuneful cadence. It shall wing thy thought 
Above the jarrings of this time-worn world, 
And give the key-tone of that victor-song 
Which plucks the sting from death. 

How closely wrapt 
In quiet slumber are all things around ! 
The vine-leaf and the willow-fringe stir not, 
Nor doth the chirping of the feeblest bird, 
Nor even the cold glance of the vestal moon, 
Disturb thy reverie. Yet dost thou think 
To be alone ? — In fellowship more close 



108 EVENING THOUGHTS. 

Than man with man, pure spirits hover near, 

Prompting to high communion with the Source 

Of every perfect gift. Lift up the soul, 

For 'tis a holy pleasure thus to find 

Its melody of musing so allied 

To pure devotion. Give thy prayer a voice, 

Claiming Heaven's blessing on these sacred 

hours, 
Which, in the world's warped balance weighed, 

might yield 
But sharp derision. Sure they help to weave 
Such robes as angels wear ; and thou shalt taste 
In their dear, deep, entrancing solitude 
Such sweet society, that thou shalt leave 
" Signet and staff," as pledges of return. 



109 



THE AFRICAN MOTHER AT HER 
DAUGHTER'S GRAVE. 



Some of the pagan Africans visit the burial-places 
of their departed relatives, bearing food and drink ;-~ 
and mothers have been known, for a long course of 
years, to bring, in an agony of grief, their annual 
oblation to the tombs of their children. 



" Daughter ! I bring thee food ; 

The rice-cake, pure and white, 
The cocoa, with its milky blood, 

Dates, and pomegranates bright, 
The orange, in its gold, 

Fresh from thy favourite tree, 
Nuts, in their ripe and husky fold, 

Dearest ! I spread for thee. 

" Year after year, I tread 

Thus to thy low retreat, — 
But now the snow-hairs mark my head, 

And age enchains my feet. 



110 THE AFRICAN MOTHER. 

! many a change of woe 
Hath dimmed thy spot of birth, 

Since first my gushing tears did flow 
O'er this thy bed of earth. 

" There came a midnight cry ; 

Flames from our hamlet rose ; 
A race of pale-browed men were nigh, 

They were our country's foes: 
Thy wounded sire was borne 

By tyrant force away, 
Thy brothers from our cabin torn, 

While in my blood I lay. 

11 1 watched for their return, 

Upon the rocky shore, 
Till night's red planets ceased to burn, 

And the long rains were o'er. 
Till seeds, their hands had sown, 

A ripened fruitage bore, 
The billows echoed to my moan, 

Yet they returned no more. 

" But thou art slumbering deep, — 

And to my wildest cry, 
When, pierced with agony, I weep, 

Dost render no reply. 
Daughter ! my youthful pride, 

The idol of my eye ; — 



THE AFRICAN MOTHER. Ill 

Why didst thou leave thy mother's side, 
Beneath these sands to lie ?" 

Long o'er the hopeless grave 

Where her lost darling slept, 
Invoking gods that could not save, 

That pagan mourner wept. 
O ! for some voice of power, 

To soothe her bursting sighs : — 
" There is a resurrection hour ; 

Thy daughter's dust shall rise !" 

Christians ! ye hear the cry 

From heathen Afric's strand, — 
Haste ! lift salvation's banner high 

O'er that benighted land : 
With faith that claims the skies, 

Her misery control, 
And plant the hope that never dies 

Deep in her tear-wet soul. 



112 



TO MOURNING PARENTS. 



Tender guides, in sorrow weeping, 
O'er your first-born's smitten bloom, 

Or fond memory's vigil keeping 
Where the fresh turf marks her tomb, 

Ye no more shall see her bearing 
Pangs that woke the dove-like moan, 

Still for your affliction caring, 
Though forgetful of her own. 

Ere the bitter cup she tasted, 
Which the hand of care doth bring, 

Ere the glittering pearls were wasted, 
From glad childhood's fairy string, 

Ere one chain of hope had rusted, 
Ere one wreath of joy was dead, 

To the Saviour, whom she trusted, 
Strong in faith, her spirit fled. 

Gone — where no dark sin is cherished, 
Where no woes nor fears invade, 

Gone — ere youth's first flower had perished, 
To a youth that ne'er can fade. 



113 



SAILOR'S FUNERAL. 



The ship's bell tolled, and slowly o'er the deck 
Came forth the summoned crew. — Bold, hardy 

men, 
Far from their native skies, stood silent there, 
With melancholy brows. From a low cloud 
That o'er the horizon hovered, came the threat 
Of distant, muttered thunder. Broken waves 
Heaved up their sharp white helmets o'er the 

expanse 
Of ocean, which in brooding stillness lay, • 
Like some vindictive king who meditates 
On hoarded wrongs, or wakes the wrathful war. 

The ship's bell tolled ! — And, lo, a youthful 

form 
Which oft had boldly dared the slippery shrouds 
At midnight watch, was as a burden laid 
Down at his comrades' feet. Mournful they 

gazed 
Upon his hollow cheek ; and some there were 
Who in that bitter hour remembered well 
The parting blessing of his hoary sire, 
8 



114 sailor's funeral. 

And the fond tears that o'er his mother's cheek 
Went coursing down, when his gay, happy 

voice 
Left its farewell. But one who nearest stood 
To that pale shrouded corse remembered 

more ; — 
Of a white cottage with its shaven lawn, 
And blossomed hedge, and of a fair-haired girl 
Who, at a lattice veiled with woodbine, watched 
His last far step, and then turned back to weep. 
And close that comrade in his faithful breast 
Hid a bright chesnut lock, which the dead youth 
Had severed with a cold and trembling hand 
In life's extremity, and bade him bear 
With broken words of love's last eloquence 
To his blest Mary. Now that chosen friend, 
Bowed low his sun-burnt face, and like a child 
Sobbed in deep sorrow. 

But there came a tone 
Clear as the breaking moon o'er stormy seas- 
"lam the resurrection." — Every heart 
Suppressed its grief, and every eye was raised. 
There stood the chaplain, his uncovered brow 
Unmarked by earthly passion, while his voice, 
Rich as the balm from plants of paradise, 
Poured the Eternal's message o'er the souls 
Of dying men. It was a holy hour ! 

There was a plunge ! — The riven sea com- 
plained, 



sailor's funeral. 115 

Death from her briny bosom took his own. 
The troubled fountains of the deep lift up 
Their subterranean portals, and he went 
Down to the floor of ocean, 'mid the beds 
Of brave and beautiful ones. Yet to my soul, 
'Mid all the funeral pomp with which this earth 
Indulgeth her dead sons, was nought so sad, 
Sublime, or sorrowful, as the mute sea 
Opening her mouth to whelm that sailor youth. 



116 



CHRISTIAN HOPE. 



*'If ye then be risen with Christ, seek those things 
that are from above, where Christ sitteth on the right 
hand of God. Set your affections on things above ; 
for ye are dead, and your life is hid with Christ in 
God."— St. Paul. 



If with the Lord your hope doth rest, 
With Christ who reigns above, 

Loose from its bonds your captive breast, 
And heavenward point its love. 

Yes, heavenward. Ye're of holy birth, 

Bid your affections soar 
Above the vain deights of earth, 

Which, fading, bloom no more. 

Seek ye some pure and thornless rose ? 

Some friend with changeless eye ? 
Some fount whence living water flows ? 

Go, seek those things on high. 



CHRISTIAN HOPE. 117 

Thither bid Hope a pilgrim go, 

And Faith her mansion rear, 
Even while amid this world of woe 

Ye shed the stranger's tear. 

If folly tempts, or sin allures, 

Be deaf to all their art, 
So, shall eternal life be yours 

When time's brief years depart. 



118 



LADY JANE GREY. 

ON SEEING A PICTURE REPRESENTING HER 
GAGED IN THE STUDY OF PLATO. 



So early wise ! Beauty hath been to thee 
No traitor-friend to steal the key 
Of knowledge from thy mind, 
Making thee gorgeous to the eye, 
Flaunting and flushed with vanity, 
Yet inly blind. 

Hark ! the hunting-bugle sounds, 

Thy father's park is gay, 
Stately nobles cheer the hounds, 

Soft hands the coursers sway, 
Haste to the sport, away ! away ! 
Youth, and mirth, and love, are there, 
Lingerest thou, fairest of the fair, 
In thy lone chamber to explore 

Ancient Plato's classic lore ? 

Grave Roger Ascham's gaze 
Is fix'd on thee with fond amaze ; 



LADY JANE GREY. 119 

Doubtless the sage doth marvel deep, 
That, for philosophy divine, 
A lady could decline 
The pleasure 'mid yon pageant-train to sweep, 
The glory o'er some five-barr'd gate to leap, 
And, in the toil of reading Greek, 

Which many a student flies, 
Find more entrancing rhetoric 
Than fashion's page supplies. 

Ah, sweet enthusiast ! happier far for thee 
Had' st thou thy musing intellectual joy 
Thro' life indulg'd without alloy, 
In solitary sanctity, — 
Nor dar'd ambition's fearful shrift, 
Nor laid thy shrinking hand on Edward's fatal 
gift. 

The crown ! the crown ! It sparkles on thy 
brow, 
I see Northumberland with joy elate, 
And low thy haughty sire doth bow, 
Honouring thy high estate, 
She, too, the austerely beautiful, whose eye 
Check'd thy timid infancy, 
Until thy heart's first buds folded their leaves to 
die, 
Homage to her meek daughter pays : 
Yet, sooth to say, one fond embrace, 
One kiss, such as the peasant-mother gives 



120 LADY JANE GREY. 

When on its evening bed her child she lays, 
Had dearer been to thee, than all their courtly 
phrase. 

The tower ! the tower ! thou bright-hair' d beau- 
teous one ! 
There, where the captive's breath 
Hath sigh'd itself in bitterness away, 
Where iron nerves have withered one by one, 
And the sick eye, shut from the glorious sun, 
Grop'd mid those chilling walls till idiocy 
Made life like death, — 
There must thy resting be ? 

Not long ! Not long ! What savage band 

'Neath thy grated window bears 
His headless form, his lifeless hand 

The magic of whose love could charm 
away thy cares ? 
Guildford ! thy husband ! yet the gushing tear 
Scarce flows to mourn his fate severe, 
Thy pious thought doth rise 
To those unclouded skies, 
Where he, amid the angel train, 
Doth for thy coming wait, to part no more again. 

The scaffold ! Must it be '.—Stern England's 
Queen, 
Hast thou such doom decreed ? 
Dwells Draco's soul beneath a woman's mein ? 



LADY JANE GREY. 121 

Must guileless youth and peerless beauty 
bleed ? 
Away ! Away ! I will not see the deed ! 
Fresh drops of crimson stain the new-fall' n 
snow, 
The wintry winds wail fitfully and low ; — 
But the meek victim is not there, 
Far from this troubled scene, 
High o'er the tyrant queen, 
She finds that crown which from her brow 
No envious hand may tear. 



122 



DEATH OF A MISSIONARY IN 
AFRICA. 



There is a sigh from Niger's sable realm, 
A voice of Afric's weeping. One hath fallen, 
Who, with the fervour of unresting love, 
Allur'd her children to a Saviour's arms. 

Alone he fell, — that heart so richly fill'd 
With all affection's brightest imagery, 
In its drear stranger-solitude endured 
The long death-struggle, and sank down to rest. 

Say ye, alone he fell ? It was not so, 
There was a hovering of celestial wings 
Around his lowly couch, a solemn sound 
Of stricken harps, such as around God '5 throne 
Make music night and day. He might not tell 
Of that high music, for his lips were sealed, 
And his eye closed. And so, ye say, — he died ? 
But all the glorious company of heaven 
Do say, — he lives, and that your brief farewell, 
Uttered in tears, was but the prelude tone 
Of the full welcome of eternity. 



123 



DIRGE. 



Mourn for the living, and not for the dead." 

Hebrew Dirge. 



I saw an infant, marble cold, 

Borne from the pillowing breast, 
And, in the shroud's embracing fold, 

Laid down to dreamless rest ; 
And, moved with bitterness, I sighed,- 

Not for the babe that slept, 
But for the mother at its side, 

Whose soul in anguish wept. 

They bore a coffin to its place,- 

I asked them. " Who was there ?" 
And they replied, "A form of grace ; 

The fairest of the fair." 
But for that blest one do ye moan, 

Whose angel- wing is spread? 
No ; for the lover, pale and lone, — 

His heart is with the dead. 



124 DIRGE. 

I wandered to a new-made grave, 

And there a matron lay, — 
The love of Him who died to save, 

Had been her spirit's stay. 
Yet sobs burst forth of torturing pain ; — 

Wail ye for her who died ? 
No ; for that timid, infant train, 

Who roam without a guide. 

Why should we mourn for those who die,- 

Whose rise to glory's sphere ? 
The tenants of that cloudless sky 

Need not our mortal tear. 
Our woe seems arrogant and vain; 

Perchance it moves their scorn, 
As if the slave, beneath his chain, 

Deplored the princely born. 

We live to meet a thousand foes ; 

We shrink with bleeding breast,— 
Why should we weakly mourn for those 

Who dwell in perfect rest ? 
Bound, for a few sad, fleeting years, 

A thorn-clad path to tread, 
O ! for the living spare those tears 

Ye lavish on the dead. 



125 



VM VOBIS.* 



" Vcb Vobis," ye whose lip doth lave 

So deeply in the sparkling wine, 
Regardless though that passion- wave 

Shut from the soul, Heaven's light divine, 
" V<b Vobis," — heed the trumpet-blast, 

Fly ! — ere the leprous taint is deep, 
Fly !— ere the hour of hope be past, 

And pitying angels cease to weep. 

" Vm Vobis," — ye who fail to read 

The name that shines where'er ye tread, 
The Alpha of our infant creed, 

The Omega of the sainted dead : 
It glows where'er the pencil' d flowers 

Their tablet to the desert show, 
Where'er the mountain's rocky towers 

Frown darkly o'er the vale below : 

Where roll the wondrous orbs on high, 
In glorious order, strong and fair, 

♦•"Woe unto you." 



126 VJE VOBIS. 

In every letter of the sky 

That midnight writes, — 'tis there ! 'tis there ! 
'Tis grav'd on ocean's wrinkled brow, 

And on the shell that gems its shore, 
And where the solemn forests bow, 

" VaVobis" ye, who scorn the lore. 

" V<b Vobis" all who trust in earth, 

Who lean on reeds that pierce the breast, 
Who toss the bubble-cup of mirth, 

Or grasp ambition's storm -wreath'd crest: 
Who early rise, and late take rest, 

In Mammon's mine, the care-worn slave, 
Who find each phantom-race unblest, 

Yet shrink reluctant from the grave. 



127 



BOY'S LAST BEQUEST. 



Half-raised upon his dying couch, his head 
Drooped o'er his mother's bosom, — like a bud 
Which, broken from its parent stalk, adheres 
By some attenuate fibre. His thin hand 
From 'neath the downy pillow drew a book, 
And slowly pressed it to his bloodless lip. 

" Mother, dear mother, see your birth- day 

gift, 
Fresh and unsoiled. Yet have I kept your 

word, 
And ere I slept each night, and every morn, 
Did read its pages, with my humble prayer, 
Until this sickness came.' ' 

He paused — for breath 
Came scantily, and with a toilsome strife. 
" Brother or sister have I none, or else 
I'd lay this Bible on their hearts, and say, 
Come, read it on my grave, among the flowers: 
So you who gave it must take it back again, 
And love it for my sake." "My son! — my 

son,'' 



128 boy's last bequest. 

Murmured the mourner, in that tender tone 
Which woman, in her sternest agony 
Commands, to soothe the pang of those she 

loves, 
" The soul ! the soul! — to whose charge yield 

you that?" 
" Mother, — to God who gave it." 

So, that soul 
With a slight shudder and a lingering smile 
Left the pale clay for its Creator's arms. 



129 



HINDER THEM NOT. 



" ' Suffer little children to come unto me, and for- 
bid them not.' But you hinder them by your exam- 
ple, and by not encouraging them. Their course 
ought to be upward : — do not hinder them." 

Rev. Mr. Taylor, of the Seamen's Chapel, Boston. 



Lock'd in the bosom of the earth 

The little seed its heart doth stir, 
And quickening for its mystic birth, 

Burst from its cleaving sepulchre, 
The aspiring head, the unfolding leaf, 

Exulting in their joyous lot, 
Turn grateful towards the Eye of Day, 

Hinder them not. 

Thus, do the buds of being rise 

From cradle-dreams, like snow-drop meek, 
While through their mind-illumin'd eyes 

A deathless principle doth speak, 
9 



130 "hinder them not. 

Already toward a brighter sphere 

They turn, from this terrestrial spot, — 

Fond parents ! — florists kind and dear ! 
Hinder them not. 

Hinder them not '.—even Love may spare 

In blindness many a wayward shoot, — 
Or weakly let the usurping tare 

Divert the health-stream from their root, 
Oh! by that negligence supine, 

Which oft the fairest page doth blot, 
And shroud the ray of light divine, 

Hinder them not. 

Cold world! — the teachings of thy guile 

Awhile from these young hearts restrain ; 
Oh spare that unsuspicious smile 

Which never must return again ; 
By folly's wile, by falsehood's kiss 

Too soon acquir'd, too late forgot, 
By sins that shut the soul from bliss, 

Hinder them not. 



131 



MORAVIAN MISSIONS TO GREEN 
LAND. 



Why steers yon bold adventurous prow 

On toward the arctic zone, 
Defying blasts that rudely seal 

To Ocean's breast like stone ? 
Why dare her crew those fearful seas 

Where icy mountains dash, 
And make the proudest ship a wreck 

With one tremendous crash ? 

They come, who seek the spirit's gold, 

They dare yon dreary sphere, 
And winter startles on his throne, 

Their strain of praise to hear : 
They come, Salvation's lamp to light 

Where frost and darkness reign, 
And with a deathles joy to cheer 

The sons of want and pain. 

And lo ! the chapel rears its head 
Beneath those stranger- skies, 



132 MORAVIAN MISSIONS TO GREENLAND. 

And to the sweet-ton' d Sabbath-bell 
The thick-ribb'd ice replies. 

Theunletter'd Esquimaux doth pluck 
The victory from the tomb, 

And grateful seek that glorious clime 
Where flowers forever bloom. 



When the last tinge of green departs, 

The last bird takes its flight, 
And the far sun no beam bestows 

On that long polar night, 
When in her subterranean cell 

To shun the tempest's ire, 
Life shrinking guards her pallid flame 

That feebly hits its spire, 

The teachers of a love divine, 

That firm, devoted band, 
With no weak sigh of fond regret 

Recall their father-land, 
The unchanging smile that lights their brow, 

While storms of Winter roar, 
Doth better prove their heaven-born Faith 
■ Than Learning's loftiest lore. 



133 



PAUL AT ATHENS. 



Come to the hill of Mars — for he is there 
That wondrous man whose eloquence doth 

touch 
The heart like living flame. With brow un- 

blanched 
And eye of fearless ardour, he confronts, 
That high tribunal with its pen of flint, 
Whose irreversible decree, made pale 
The Gentile world. All Athens gathers near, 
Fickle, and warm of heart, and fond of change 
And full of strangers, and of those who pass 
Life in the idle toil to hear, or tell, 
Of some new thing. See, thither throng the 

bands 
Of Epicurus, wrapt in gorgeous robe, 
Who seem with bright and eager eyes to ask 
"What will this babbler say?"— With front 

austere, 
Stand a dark group of Stoics, sternly proud — 
And predetermined to confute ; yet still 
'Neath the deep wrinkles of their settled brow, 



ft 



134 PAUL AT ATHENS. 

Lurks some unwonted gathering of their powers 
As for no common foe. With angry frown 
Stalk the fierce Cynics, anxious to condemn, 
And prompt to punish, while the patient sons 
Of gentle Plato bow the listening soul 
To search for wisdom, and with reason's art 
Build the fair argument. Behold the throngs 
Press on the speaker, drawing still more close 
In denser circles, as his thrilling tones 
Teach of the God who " warneth everywhere 
Men to repent," and of that fearful day 
When He shall judge the world. Loud tumult 

wakes, 
The tide of strong emotion hoarsely swells, 
And that blest voice is silent. They ha\e 

mocked 
At Heaven's high messenger, and he departs 
From the mad circle. But his graceful hand 
Points to an altar, with its mystic scroll*— 
" The Unknown God." — Oh ! Athens ! is it so ? 
Thou who hast crowned thyself with woven 

rays 
As a divinity, and called the world 
Thy pilgrim-worshipper, dost thou confess 
Such ignorance and shame ? 

The Unknown God I 
Why, all thy hillocks and resounding streams 
Do boast their deity, and every house, 
Yea, every beating heart within thy walls, 
May choose its temple and its priestly train, 



PAUL AT ATHENS. 135 

Victim and garland, and appointed rite ; 

Thou makest the gods of every realm thine own, 

Fostering, with frantic hospitality, 

All forms of idol-worship. Can it be 

That still thou found' st not Him who is so near 

To every one of us, in " whom we live, 

And move, and have our being?" Found not 

Him 
Of whom thy poets spake with childlike awe ? 

And thou, philosophy, whose art, refined, 
Did aim to pierce the labyrinth of fate, 
And compass with a fine-spun sophist web 
This mighty universe — didst thou fall short 
Of the Upholding Cause ?— 

The Unknown God ? 
Thou who didst smile to find the admiring 

world 
Crouch as a pupil to thee, wert thou blind ? — 
Blinder than he who, in his humble cot, 
With hardened hand, his daily labour done, 
Turneth the page of Jesus and doth read, 
With toil, perchance, that the trim schoolboy 

scorns, 
Counting him, in his arrogance, a fool ? 
Yet shall the poor, wayfaring man lie down 
With such a hope as thou could' st never teach 
Thy king-like sages — yea, a hope that plucks 
The sting from death, the victory from the grave. 



136 



THE MUFFLED KNOCKER. 



Grief! Grief! 'tis thy symbol, so mute and 

drear, 
Yet it hath a tale for the listening ear, 
Of the nurse's care, and the curtain'd bed, 
Of the baffled healer's cautious tread ; 
And the midnight lamp, with its flickering light 
Half screen' d from the restless sufferer's sight ; 
Yes, many a sable scene of woe, 
Doth that muffled knocker's tablet show. 

Pain ! Pain ! art thou wrestling herewith man ; 
For the broken gold of his wasted span ? 
Art thou straining thy rack on his tortur'd nerve 
Till his firmest hopes from their anchor swerve ? 
Till burning tears from his eye-balls flow, 
And his manhood faints in a shriek of woe ? 
Methinks, thy scorpion-sting I trace, 
Through the mist of that sullen knocker's face. 

Death! Death! do I see thee with weapon 

dread, 
Art thou laying thy hand ok yon cradle bed ? 



THE MUFFLED KNOCKER 137 

The mother is there, with her sleepless eye, 
To dispute each step of thy victory. 
She doth fold the child in her soul's embrace, 
Her prayer is, to die in her idol's place, 
She hath bared her breast to thine arrow's sway, 
But thou will not be bribed from that babe 
away. 

Earth ! Earth ! thou hast stamp'd on thy scroll 

of bliss 
The faithless seal of a traitor's kiss, 
Where the bridal lamp gleam' d clear and bright, 
And the foot through the maze of the dance was 

light, 
Thou biddest the black-robed weeper kneel, 
And the heavy hearse roll its lumbering wheel ; 
And still to the heart that will heed its lore, 
Does Wisdom speak from yon muffled door. 



138 



CHANGES. 



The vines are wither' d, O, my love, 

That erst we taught to tower, 
And in a mesh of fragrance wove, 

Around our summer-bower. 

The ivy on the ancient wall 

Doth in its "budding fade ; 
The stream is dry, whose gentle fal! 

A lulling murmur made. 

The tangled weeds have chok'd the flowers; 

The trees, so lately bright, 
In all the pomp of vernal hours 

Reveal a blackening blight ; 

There is a sigh upon the gale 

That doth the willow sway, 
A murmur from the blossoms pale, 

" Arise, and come away." 

So, when this life in clouds shall hide 
Its garland fair and brief, 



139 



And every promise of its pride 
Must wear the frosted leaf ; 

Then may the undying soul attain 

That heritage sublime, 
Where comes no pang of parting pain, 

Nor change of hoary time. 



140 



ON READING THE MEMOIRS OF 
MRS. JUDSON. 



I saw her on the strand. Beside her smil'd 
The land of birth, and the beloved home, 
With all their pageantry of tint and shade, 
Streamlet and vale. 

There stood her childhood's friends, 
Sweet sisters, who her inmost thoughts had 

shar'd, 
And saint- like parents, whose example rais'd 
Those thoughts to heaven. It was a strong 

array, 
And the fond heart clung to its rooted loves. 
But Christ had given a panoply, which earth 
Might never take away. And so she turn'd 
To boisterous ocean, and with cheerful step, 
Though moisten'd eye, forsook the cherish'd 

clime 
Whose halcyon bowers had rear'd her joyous 

youth. 
— I look'd again. It was a foreign shore. 
The tropic sun had laid his burning brow 



MRS. JUDSON. 141 

On twilight's lap. A gorgeous palace caught 
His last red ray. Hoarsely the idol-song 
To Boodh mingled with the breeze that curl'd 
Broad Irrawaddy's tide. Why do ye point 
To yon low prison ? Who is he that gropes 
Amid its darkness, with those fetter' d limbs? 
Mad Pagans ! do ye thus requite the man 
Who toils for your salvation ? 

See that form 
Bending in tenderest sympathy to soothe 
The victim's sorrow. Tardy months pass by, 
And find her still intrepid at the post 
Of danger and of disappointed hope. 
Stern sickness smote her, yet, with tireless zeal, 
She bore the hoarded morsel to her love, 
Dar'd the rude arrogance of savage power, 
To plead for him, and bade his dungeon glow, 
With her fair brow, as erst the angel's smile 
Arous'd imprison' d Peter, when his hands, 
From fetters loos' d, were lilted high in praise. 

—There was another scene, drawn by his 
hand 
Whose icy pencil blotteth out the grace 
And loveliness of man. The keenest shaft 
Of anguish quivers in that martyr's breast, 
Who is about to wash her garments white 
In a Redeemer's blood, and glorious rise 
From earthly sorrows to a chme of rest. 
— Dark Burman faces are around her bed, 



142 MRS. JUDSON. 

And one pale babe is there, for whom she checks 
The death-groan, clasping it in close embrace, 
Even till the heart-strings break. 

Behold he comes ! 
The wearied man of God from distant toil. 
His home, while yet a misty speck it seems, 
His straining eye detects, but marks no form 
Of his most lov'd one, hasting down the vale 
As wont, to meet him. 

Say, what heathen lip 
In its strange accents told him, that on earth 
Nought now remain' d to heal his wounded heart, 
Save that lone famish' d infant ? Days of care, 
Were meted to him, and long nights of grief 
Weigh'd out, and then that little, wailing one, 
Went to her mother's bosom, and slept sweet 
'Neath the cool branches of the hopia-tree. 
'Twas bitterness to think that bird-like voice, 
Which sang sweet hymns to please a father's 

ear, 
Must breathe no more. 

This is to be alone, 
Alone in this wide world. 

Yet not without 
A comforter. For the true heart that trusts 
Its all to Heaven, and sees its treasur'd things 
Unfold their hidden wing, and thither soar, 
Doth find itself drawn upward in their flight. 



143 



TRIBUTE 
TO THE REV. DR. CORNELIUS. 



" All ye that were about him, bemoan him, and 
all ye that know his name, say, how is the strong 
staff broken,— and the beautiful rod?"— The Pro- 
phet Jeremiah. 



And can it be,— and can it be, that thou art on 
thy bier ? 

But yesterday in all the prime of life's unspent 
career ! 

I've seen the forest's noblest tree laid low, when 
lightnings shine, 

The column in its majesty torn from the temple- 
shrine, 

Yet little deem'd that ice so soon would check 
thy vital stream, 

Or the sun that soar'd without a cloud thus veil 
its noon- day beam. 



144 TRIBUTE TO THE REV. DR. CORNELIUS. 

I've seen thee in thy glory stand, while all 
around was hush'd, 

And seraph-wisdom from thy lips in tones of 
music gush'd, 

For thou with willing hand didst lay, at morn- 
ing's dewy hour, 

Upon the altar of thy God thy beauty and thy 
power, 

Thou, for the helpless sons of woe, didst plead 
with words of flame, 

And boldly strike the rocky heart in thy Re- 
deemer's name. 

And, lo ! that withering race who fade as dew 

'neath summer's ray, 
Who, like uprooted weeds, are cast from their 

own earth away, 
Who trusted to a nation's vow, yet found that 

faith was vain, 
And to their fathers' sepulchres return no more 

again ; 
They need thy blended eloquence of lip, and 

eye, and brow, 
They need the righteous for a shield ; why art 

thou absent now ? 

Long shall thine image freshly dwell beside their 

native streams, 
And, 'mid their wanderings far and wide, illume 

their alien dreams, 



TRIBUTE TO THE REV. DR. CORNELIUS. 145 

For Heaven to their sequester' d haunts thine 

early steps did guide, 
And the Cherokee hath heard thy prayer his 

cabin -hearth beside, 
The Osage orphan sadly breath' d her sorrows 

to thine ear, 
And the stern warrior knelt him down with 

strange repentant tear. 

I see a consecrated throng of youthful watchmen 
rise, 

Each girding on for Zion's sake their heaven- 
wrought panoplies ; 

These, in their solitudes obscure, thy generous 
ardour sought, 

And gathering with a tireless hand, up to the 
temple brought, 

These, while the altar of their God they serve 
with hallow' d zeal, 

Shall wear thy memory on their heart, an ever- 
lasting seal. 

I hear a voice of wailing from the islands of the 

sea, 
Salvation's distant heralds mourn on heathen 

shores for thee ; 
Thy constant love, like Gilead's balm refresh'd 

their weary mind, 
And with the blessed Evart's name thine own 

was strongly twin'd, 
10 



146 TRIBUTE TO THE BEV. DR. CORNELIUS. 

But thou, from this illusive scene, hast like a 

vision fled, 
Just wrapp'd his mantle o'er thy breast, then 

join'd him with the dead. 

Farewell ! we yield thee to the tomb, with many 
a bitter tear, 

Tho' 'twas not meet a soul like thine should 
longer tarry here, 

Fond, clustering hopes have sunk with thee, 
that earth can ne'er restore, 

Love casts a garland on thy turf, that may not 
blossom more ; 

But thou art where each dream of hope shall in 
fruition fade, 

And love, immortal and refin'd, glow on with- 
out a shade. 



147 



CHARITY HYMN. 



Widow ! long estrang'd from gladness, 

In thy cell so lonely made, 
Where chill Penury's cloud of sadness 

Adds to grief a sterner shade, 
Look ! the searching eye hath found thee, 

Pitying hearts confess thy claim, 
Bounteous spirits shed around thee 

Blessings in a Saviour's name. 

Orphan ! in dependence weeping, 

Crush'd by want and misery dire, 
Or on lowly pallet sleeping, 

Dreaming of thy buried sire, 
Hands like his, combine to rear thee, 

Stranger-arms are round thee cast, 
And a Father ever near thee. 

Fits the shorn lamb to the blast. 

Brethren ! by the precious token 
Which the sons of mercy wear, 

By the vows we here have spoken, 
Grav'd in truth, and seal'd with prayer, 



148 CHARITY HYMN. 

Penury's pathway we will brighten, 
Misery with compassion meet, 

And the heart of sorrow lighten, 
Till our own shall cease to beat. 



149 



PICTURE OF A SLEEPING INFANT 
WATCHED BY A DOG. 



Sweet are thy slumbers, baby. Gentle gales 
Do lift the curtaining foliage o'er thy head, 
And nested birds sing lullaby ; and flowers 
That form the living broidery of thy couch 
Shed fresh perfume. 

He, too, whose guardian eye 
Pondereth thy features with such true delight, 
And faithful semblance of parental care, 
Counting his master's darling as his own, 
Should aught upon thy helpless rest intrude, 
Would show a lion's wrath. 

And when she comes, 
Thy peasant-mother, from her weary toil, 
Thy shout will cheer her, and thy little arms 
Entwine her sunburnt neck, with joy as full 
As infancy can feel. They who recline 
In luxury's proud cradle, lulled with strains 
Of warbling lute, and watched by hireling eyes, 
And wrapt in golden tissue, share, perchance, 
No sleep so sweet as thine. 



150 PICTURE OF A SLEEPING INFANT. 

Is it not thus 
With us, the larger children? Gorgeous robes, 
And all the proud appliances of wealth, 
Touch not the heart's content ; but he is blest, 
Though clad in humble garb, who peaceful 

greets 
The smile of nature, with a soul of love. 



151 



ON RETURNING FROM CHURCH. 



The listening ear the hallow' d strain 
Has caught from lips devoutly wise, 

But what my heart has been thy gain 
From all these precepts of the skies ? 

Contrition's lesson have they taught ? 

The oft-forgotten vow renew' d? 
Or gently touch' d thy glowing thought 

With the blest warmth of gratitude ? 

Say, from the low delights of time 
Thy best affections have they won ? 

Inciting thee with zeal sublime 
Earth's fleeting pilgrimage to run ? 

If not, how vain the band to join 

Who toward the house of God repair, 

To pour the song of praise divine 
Or kneel in pharasaic prayer'; 

And ah ! how vain when Death's cold hand 
Shall sternly reap time's ripen'd field, 

How worse than vain when all must stand 
The last, the dread account to yield. 



152 



THE BAPTISM. 



'Twas near the close of that blest day, when, 

with melodious swell, 
To crowded mart and lonely vale, had spoke 

the sabbath bell, 
While on a broad, unruffled stream, with fringed 

verdure bright, 
The westering sunbeam richly shed a tinge of 

crimson light. 

When, lo ! a solemn train appeared, by their 

loved pastor led, 
And sweetly rose the holy hymn, as toward that 

stream they sped ; 
And he its cleaving, crystal breast, with graceful 

movement trod, 
His steadfast eye upraised, to seek communion 

with its God. 

Then, bending o'er his staff, approached that 

willow-shaded shore, 
A man of many weary years, with furrowed 

temples hoar ; 



THE BAPTISM. 153 

And faintly breathed his trembling lip — " Be- 
hold, I fain would be 

Buried in baptism with my Lord, ere death should 
summon me." 

With brow benign, like Him whose hand did 

wavering Peter guide, 
The pastor bore his tottering frame through that 

translucent tide, 
And plunged him 'neath the shrouding wave, 

and spake the Triune name, 
And joy upon that withered face, in wondering 

radiance came. 

And then advanced a lordly form, in manhood's 
towering pride, 

Who from the gilded snares of earth had wisely 
turned aside, 

And, following in His steps who bowed to Jor- 
dan's startled wave, 

In deep humility of soul, this faithful witness 
gave. 

Who next ? — A fair and fragile form, in snowy 

robe doth move, 
That tender beauty in her eye that wakes the 

vow of love — 
Yea come, thou gentle one, and arm thy soul 

with strength divine, 
This stern world hath a thousand darts to vex a 

breast like thine. 



154 THE BAPTISM. 

Beneath its smile a traitor's kiss is oft in dark- 
ness bound — 

Cling to that Comforter who holds a balm for 
every wound ; 

Propitiate that Protector's care who never will 
forsake, 

And thou shalt strike the harp of praise, even 
when thy heart-strings break. 

Then, with a firm, unshrinking step, the watery 

path she trod, 
And gave, with woman's deathless trust, her 

being to her God ; 
And when all drooping from the flood she rose, 

like lily-stem, 
Methought that spotless brow might wear an 

angel's diadem. 

Yet more ! Yet more ! — How meek they bow 
to their Redeemer's rite, 

Then pass with music on their way, like joyous 
sons of light ; 

Yet lingering on those shores I staid, till every 
sound was hush'd, 

For hallow'd musings o'er my soul, like spring- 
swollen rivers rush'd. 

'Tis better, said the voice within, to bear a 

Christian's cross, 
Than sell this fleeting life for gold, which death 

shall prove but dross. 



THE BAPTISM. 155 

Far better when yon shrivell'd skies are like a 

banner furl'd, 
To share in Christ's reproach, than gain the 

glory of the world. 



156 



DEATH OF THE WIFE OF A 
CLERGYMAN, 

DURING THE SICKNESS OF HER HUSBAND. 



Dark sorrow brooded o'er the pastor's home, 
The prayer was silent, and the loving group 
That sang their hymn of praise at even and 

morn • 

Now droop' d in pain, — or with a noiseless step 
Tended the sick. It was a time of woe : 
Days measur'd out in anguish, and drear nights 
Mocking the eye that waited for the dawn. 

They who from youth, by hallow' d vows con- 
join' d, 
Had borne life's burdens with united arm, 
And, side by side, its adverse fortunes foil'd 
Apart, — an agonizing warfare wag'd 
With nature's stern destroyer. Tidings pass'd 
From couch to couch, — how stood the doubtful 

strife 
'Twixt life and death. They might not lay then- 
hand 



DEATH OF THE WIFE OF A CLERGYMAN. 157 

Upon each other's throbbing brow, — or breathe 
The words of comfort, for disease had set 
A gulf between them. 

Hark ! what sound appall' d 
The suffering husband? 'Twas a mourner's 

sob 
Beside his bed. 

" My mother will not speak. — 
They say she's dead." — 

Art thou the messenger, 
Poor, pallid boy, that the dear love which 

sooth' d 
The cradle-moan,and on thro' all thy life 
Would still have clung to thee, untir'd, un- 

chang'd, — 
Is blotted out for ever ? — Thou dost tell 
A loss thou can'st not measure. 

She, — the friend,— 
The mother, imag'd in those daughters' hearts 
First, — dearest, — best-belov'd, — who^ joy'd to 

walk 
The meek companion of a man of God, — 
Hath given her hand to that destroyer's grasp 
Who rifleth the clay-cottage, — sending forth 
The immortal habitant. Fearless, she laid 
Earth's vestments by. 

And thou, whose tenderest trust . 
With an unwonted confidence was seal'd 
In that cold breast so long, — lift up thy souL 
" She is not here, — but risen !" — Shew the faith 



158 DEATH OF THE WIFE OF A CLERGYMAN. 

Which thou hast preach'd to others, — by its 

power 
In the dark night of trouble. Take the cross, — 
And from thy stricken heart pour freshly forth 
The spirit of thy Lord,— teaching thy flock 
To learn Jehovah's lessons, — and be still. 



CHRISTMAS HYMN. 



Thou who, once an infant stranger, 
Honour' d this auspicious morn, 

Thou who, in Judea's manger, 
Wert this day of woman born, 

Thou whom wondering sages offer' d 
Costly gifts, and incense sweet, 

Take our homage, humbly proffer'd, 
Grateful kneeling at thy feet. 

Thou whose path a star of glory 

Gladly hasted to reveal, 
Herald of salvation's story, 

Touch our hearts with equal zeal : 

Thou at whose approach was given 
Welcome from the angels' lyre, 

Teach our souls the song of heaven, 
Ere we join their tuneful choir. 



160 



DEATH OF THE REV. GORDON HALL. 



The healer droops, — no more his skill 

May ease the sufferer's moan, — 
The hand that sooth' d another's pang 

Sinks powerless 'neath its own ; 
The teacher dies ; — he came to plant 

Deep in a heathen soil, 
The germ of everlasting life, 

He faints amid the toil. 

There was a vision of the Sea, 

That pain'd his dying strife, 
Why stole that vision o'er his soul 

Thus 'mid the wreck of life ? 
A form, by holiest love endear'd, 

There rode the billowy crest, 
And tenderly his pallid boys 

Were folded to her breast. 

Then rose the long remember'd scenes 

Of his far, native bowers, 
The white-spir'd church, the mother's hymn, 

And boyhood's clustering flowers, 



DEATH OF THE REV. GORDON HALL. 161 

And strong that country of his heart, 

The green and glorious West, 
Shar'd in the parting throb of love 

That shook the dying breast. 

Brief was the thought, the dream, the pang, 

For high Devotion came, 
And brought the martyr's speechless joy, 

And wing'd the prayer of flame, 
And stamp'd upon the marble face 

Heaven's smile serenely sweet, 
And bade the icy, quivering lip 

The praise of God repeat. 

Strange, olive brows with tears were wet, 

As a lone grave was made, 
And there, 'mid Asia's arid sands 

Salvation's herald laid, 
But bright that shroudless clay shall burst 

From its uncoffin'd bed, 
When the Archangel's awful trump 

Convenes the righteous dead. 



11 



162 



TOMB OF ABSALOM. 



Is this thy tomb, amid the mournful shades 

Of the deep valley of Jehoshaphat, 

Thou son of David ? Kidron's gentle brook 

Is murmuring near, as if it fain would tell 

Thy varied history. Methinks I see 

Thy graceful form, thy smile, thy sparkling eye, 

The glorious beauty of thy flowing hair, 

And that bright eloquent lip whose cunning stole 

The hearts of all the people. Didst thou waste 

The untold treasures of integrity, 

The gold of conscience, for their light applause, 

Thou fair dissembler ? 

Say, rememberest thou 
When o'er yon flinty steep of Olivet 
A sorrowing train went up? Dark frowning 

seers, 
Denouncing judgment on a rebel prince, 
Pass'd sadly on ; and next a crownless king, 
Walking in sad and humbled majesty, 
While hoary statesmen bent upon his brow 
Indignant looks of tearful sympathy. — 
What caused the weeping there ? 



TOMB OF ABSALOM. 163 

Thou heard' st it not; 
For thou within the city's walls didst hold 
Thy revel, brief and base. And could' st thou 
The embattled host against thy father's life, 
The king of Israel, and the lov'd of God ? 
He, 'mid the evils of his changeful lot, 
Saul's moody hatred, stern Philistia's spear, 
His alien wanderings, and his warrior toil, 
Found nought so bitter as the rankling thorn 
Set, by thy madness of ingratitude, 
Deep in his yearning soul. 

What were thy thoughts 
When in the mesh of thine own tresses snared 
Amid the oak whose quiet verdure mocked 
Thy misery ? Wert thou forsook by all 
Who shared thy meteor-greatness, and con- 
strained 
To learn, in that strange solitude of agony, 
A traitor hath no friends? — What were thy 

thoughts 
When death, careering on the triple dart 
Of vengeful Joab, found thee? To thy God 
Rose there one cry of penitence, one prayer 
For that unmeasured mercy which can cleanse 
Unbounded guilt ? Or turned thy stricken heart 
Toward him who o'er thy infant graces watched 
With tender pride, and all thy sins of youth 
In blindfold fondness pardoned ? 

Hark '.—the breeze 
That sweeps the palm-groves of Jerusalem 



164 TOMB OF ABSALOM. 

Bears the continuous wail, " O Absalom ! — 
My son ! — my son !" — 

We turn us from thy tomb, — 
Usurping prince ! — thy beauty and thy grace 
Have perish' d with thee ! — but thy fame sur- 
vives, — 
The ingrate son that pierc'd a father's heart. 



165 



DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY AT THE 
RETREAT FOR THE INSANE. 



Youth glows upon her blossom' d cheek, 

Glad beauty in her eye, 
And fond affections pure and meek 

Her every want supply : 
Why doth her glance so wildly rove 

Some fancied foe to find ? 
What dark dregs stir her cup of love ? 

Go ask the sickening mind ! 

They bear her where with cheering smile 

The hope of healing reigns 
For those whom morbid Fancy's wile 

In torturing bond constrains ; 
Where Mercy spreads an angel- wing 

To do her Father's will, 
And heaven-instructed, plucks the sting 

From earth's severest ill. 

Yet o'er that sufferer's drooping head 
No balm of Gilead stole, 



166 DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY. 

Diseas'd Imagination spread 

Dark chaos o'er the soul ; 
Tho' recollected truths sublime 

Still fed Devotion's stream, 
And beings from a sinless clime 

Blent with her broken dream. 

Then came a coffin and a shroud, 

And many a bursting sigh 
With shrieks of laughter long and loud, 

From those who knew not why ; 
For she, whom Reason's fickle ray 

Oft wilder'd and distress'd 
Hush'd in unwonted slumber lay, 

A cold and dreamless rest. 

Think ye of Heaven ! how glorious bright 

Will break its vision clear, 
On souls that rose from earthly night 

All desolate and drear; 
So ye who laid that stricken form 

Down to its willing sleep, 
Snatch' d like a flowret from the storm, 

Weep not as others weep. 



167 



THE TOWER AT MONTEVIDEO. 



Written after visiting the beautiful summer resi- 
dence of Daniel Wadsworth, Esq., on Talcot 
mountain, near Hartford, Conn., which bears the 
name of Montevideo. 



Full many a year hath past away, 
Thou rude, old Tower, so stern and grey, 
Since first I came, enthusiast lone, 
To worship at thy hermit throne. 
— Tho' wintry blast, and sweeping rain 
Have mark'd thee with their iron stain, 
Yet freely springing at thy feet, 
New beauties wreathe their garland sweet. 
Young flowers the ancient wilds perfume, 
In tangled dells, fresh roses bloom, 
And foliage wraps with mantle deep, 
The trap-rock ledges harsh and steep. 
— Still spreads the lake its mirror clear, 
The forest-warblers charm the ear, 
The glorious prospect opens wide 



168 THE TOWEK AT MONTEVIDEO. 

Its varied page in summer's pride, 

And tasteful hands have deftly wove 

Enchantment's spell o'er vale and grove. 

Farewell old Tower ! thou still shalt be 

Remember' d as a friend by me, 

Who bring' st from time's recorded track 

The buds of joy profusely back, 

And sweetly from thy turrets hoar 

The song of gratitude dost pour, 

Nor spare around my path to fling, 

Young memory's brightest blossoming. 

— When next we meet, perchance, the trace 

Of age shall tint thy tottering base, 

And I, with added plainness show 

The wrinkled lines that care bestow; 

But Nature still serene and fair, 

No thread of silver in her hair, 

No furrow' d mark on brow or cheek, 

The same rich dialect shall speak, 

With silent finger upward pointing, 

And forehead pure with Heaven's anointing, 

And smile more eloquent than speech, 

The lessons of her Sire shall teach. 



169 



BIRTH-DAY VERSES TO A LITTLE 
GIRL. 



I do bethink me of a feeble babe, 
To whom the gift of life did seem a toil 
It trembled to take up, and of the care 
That tireless nurtur'd her by night and day, 
When it would seem as if the fainting breath 
Must leave her bosom, and her fair blue eye 
Sank 'neath its lids, like some crushed violet. 
■ — Six winters came, and now that self-same babe 
Wins with her needle the appointed length 
Of her light task, and learns with patient zeal 
The daily lesson, tracing on her map 
All climes and regions of the peopled earth. 
With tiny hand, she guides the writer's quill, 
To grave those lines through which the soul 

doth speak, 
And pours in timid tones, the hymn at eve. 
She from the pictur'd page, doth scan the tribes 
That revel in the air, or cleave the flood, 
Or roam the wild, delighting much to know 
Their various natures, and their habits all, 



170 BIRTH-DAY VERSES TO A LITTLE GIRL. 

From the huge elephant, to the small fly 
That liveth but a day, yet in that day 
Is happy, and outspreads a shining wing, 
Exulting in the mighty Maker's care. 
She weeps that men should barb the monarch- 
whale, 
In his wild ocean-home, and wound the dove, 
And snare the pigeon, hasting to its nest 
To feed its young, and hunt the flying deer, 
And find a pleasure in the pain he gives. 
She tells the sweetly modulated tale 
To her young brother, and devoutly cheers 
At early morning, seated on his knee 
Her hoary grandsire from the Book of God 
Who meekly happy in his fourscore years, 
Mourns not the dimness gathering o'er his sight, 
But with a saintly kindness, bows him down 
To drink from her young lip, the lore he loves. 
Fond, gentle child, who like a flower that 
hastes 
To burst its sheath, hath come so quickly forth 
A sweet companion, walking by my side, — 
Thou, whom thy father loveth, and thy friends 
Delight to praise, lift thy young heart to God, — 
That whatsoe'er doth please him in thy life 
He may perfect, and by his Spirit's power 
Remove each germ of evil, that thy soul 
When this brief discipline of time is o'er 
May rise to praise him with an angel's song. 



171 



FAREWELL TO THE AGED. 



Rise weary spirit, to a realm of rest ! 

Sorrow hath had her will of thee, and Pain, 
With a destroyer's fury prob'd thy breast, 

But thou the victory through Christ didst gain ; 
Rise free from stain. 

Years wrote their history on thy furrow' d brow 
In withering lines; and Time like ocean's 
foam 
Swept o'er the shores of hope, till thou didst 
know 
Earth's emptiness. But now no more to roam 
Pass to thy home. 

Blest filial Love reserv'd its freshest wreath 
Of changeless green and blooming buds for 
thee, 
And o'er thy bosom threw its grateful breath, 
When the waste world but weeds of misery 
Spread for thine eye. 



172 FAREWELL TO THE AGED. 

Take up the triumph-song, thou who didst bow 
So long and meekly 'neath the Chastener's 
rod, 
Thou whose firm faith beheld with raptur'd glow 
The resurrection cleave the burial-sod, 
Go to thy God. 



173 



"THY WILL BE DONE.' 



When with unclouded ray 

Shines the bright sun, 
When summer streamlets play, 
And all around is gay, 
Then shall the spirit say, 

"Thy will be done?" 

No. — When the flowers of love 

Fade, one by one, 
When in its blasted grove 
The shuddering heart doth rove, 
Then say, and look above, 

" Thy will be done." 



174 



DEATH OF MRS. H. W. L. WINSLOW, 
MISSIONARY IN CEYLON. 



Thy name hath power like magic. Back it 

brings 
The earliest pictures hung in memory's halls, 
Tinting them freshly o'er: — the rugged cliff, — 
The towering trees, — the wintry walk to 

school, — 
The page so often conn'd, — the hour of sport 
Well earn'd and dearly priz'd, — the sparkling 

brook 
Making its slight cascade, — the darker rush 
Of the pent river through its rocky pass, — 
The violet-gatherings 'mid the vernal banks, — 
When our young hearts did ope their crystal 

gates 
To every simple joy. 

I little deem'd, 
'Mid all that gay and gentle fellowship, 
That Asia's sun would beam upon thy grave, 
Tho', even then, from thy dark, serious eye 
There was a glancing forth of glorious thought, 



DEATH OF MRS. H. W. L. WINSLOW. 175 

That scorn' d earth's vanities. I saw thee stand 
With but a few brief summers o'er thy head, 
And in the consecrated courts of God 
Confess thy Saviour's name. And they who 

mark'd 
The promise of that opening bud did ask 
What its full bloom must be. 

But now thy couch 
Is where the Ceylon mother tells her child 
Of all thy prayers and labours. Yes, thy rest 
Is in the bosom of that fragrant isle 
Where heathen man, with lavish Nature strives 
To blot the lesson she would teach of God. 

Thy pensive sisters pause upon thy tomb 
To catch the spirit that did bear thee through 
All tribulation, till thy robes were white, 
To join the angelic train. And so farewell, 
My childhood's playmate, aud my sainted friend, 
Whose bright example, not without rebuke, 
Admonisheth, that home, and ease, and wealth, 
And native land, are well exchang'd for heaven. 



176 



I WILL ARISE AND GO UNTO MY 
FATHER." 



Wanderer, amid the snares 
Of Time's uncertain way, 

Of thousand nameless fears the sport, 
Of countless ills the prey : 

A stranger 'mid the land 

Where thy probation lies, 
In peril from each adverse blast 

And e'en from prosperous skies. 

In peril from thy friends, 

In peril from thy foes, 
In peril from the rebel heart 

That in thy bosom glows ; 

Hast thou no Father's house 
Beyond this pilgrim scene, 

That thou on Earth's delusive props 
With bleeding breast doth lean ? 



"I WILL ARISE," ETC. 177 

Yet not a Mother's care 

Who for her infant sighs, 
When absence shuts it from her arms 

Or sickness dims its eyes, 

Transcends the love divine, 

The welcome full and free 
With which the glorious King of Heaven 

Will stretch his arms to thee, 

When thou with contrite tear 

Shall wait within his walls, 
Imploring but the broken bread 

That from his table falls. 

No more his mansion shun, 

No more distrust his grace, 
Turn from the orphanage of earth 

And find a Sire's embrace. 



12 



178 



VOICE FROM THE GRAVE OF A 
SUNDAY-SCHOOL TEACHER. 



Yes this is the holy ground, 

Lay me to slumber here, 
The cherish'd thoughts of early days, 

Have made this spot most dear, — 
Fast by the hallow 1 d church 

Where first I learned to pray 
In faith, and penitence and peace, — 

Make ye my bed of clay. 

Though life hath been to me 

A scene of joy and love, 
And sweet affections round my heart 

Unchanging garlands wove, 
Though knowledge in its power 

At studious midnight came, 
Enkindling in my raptur'd mind, 

A bright, unwavering flame ; 

Yet dearer far than all, 
Was Heaven's celestial lore: 



ON THE DEATH OF AN INFANT SCHOLAR. 179 

Then come, belov'd and youthful train, 

Who hear my voice no more 
Come, sing the hymn I taught, 

Here, by my lowly bed, 
And with your Sabbath-lessons blend 

Sweet memories of the dead. 



ON THE DEATH OF A MEMBER OF THE INFANT 
SCHOOL. 

" He gathereth the lambs with his arm, and carrieth 
them in his bosom."— Isaiah. 

Lamb ! in a clime of verdure, 

Thy favored lot was cast, 
No serpent 'mid thy flow'ry food, 

Upon thy fold no blast, — 
Thine were the crystal fountains, 

And thine a cloudless sky, 
Amid thy sports a star of love 

Thy playmate brother's eye. 

Approving guides caress' d thee, 

Where'er thy footsteps rov'd ; 
The ear that heard thee bless'd thee, 

The eye that saw thee lov'd ; 
Yet life hath snares and sorrows 

From which no friend can save, 



180 ON THE DEATH OF AN INFANT SCHOLAR. 

And evils might have thronged thy path, 
Which thou wert weak to brave. 

There is a heavenly Shepherd, 

And ere thy infant charms 
Had caught the tinge of care or woe 

He call'd thee to his arms, 
And though the shadowy valley, 

With Death's dark frown was dim, 
Light cheer'd the stormy passage 

And thou art safe with Him. 



181 



DEATH OF A YOUNG MUSICIAN. 



Music was in thy heart, and fast entwin'd, 
And closely knotted with its infant strings, 
Were the rich chords of melody. When youth 
And science led thee to their classic bower, 
A pale and patient student, the lone lamp 
Of midnight vigil found thee pouring out 
Thy soul in dulcet sound. In memory's cell 
Still live those thrilling tones, as erst they broke, 
Beguiling with sweet choral symphonies 
The festal hour. 

But, lo ! while thou didst wake 
The solemn organ to entrancing power, 
Tracing the secret spells of harmony, 
On through deep rapture's labyrinthine maze 
Devotion came, and breath'd upon thy brow, 
And made her temple in thy tuneful breast. 
So, music led thee to thy Saviour's feet, 
Serene and true disciple, and their harps 
Who fondly hold untiring guardianship 
O'er frail man's pilgrim-path, were tremulous 
With joy for thee. 



182 DEATH OF A YOUNG MUSICIAN. 

Nor vainly to thy soul 
Came Heaven's high message wrapp'd in min 

trelsy, 
For to its service, with unshrinking zeal, 
The blossom of thy life was dedicate. 
Thy hand was on God's altar, when a touch, 
Sudden and strange and icy cold, unloos'd 
Its fervent grasp. Thy gentle heart was glad 
With the soft promise of a hallow' d love. 
But stern death dash'd it out. Now there are 

tears 
In tenderest eyes for thee. 

Yet we who know 
That earth hath many discords for a soul 
Fine-ton'd and seraph-strung, and that the feet 
Which fain would follow Christ are sometimes 

held 
In the dark meshes of a downward course, 
Till strong repentance urge them back with 

tears, 
Do feel thy gain. 

'Tis well thou art at home, 
Spirit of melody and peace and love. 



183 



THE SOUTH-AMERICAN STATUES. 



There are still found, upon the snow-covered cliffs 
of the Andes, the bodies of some of those Spaniards, 
who after the discovery of America, in searching for 
the rich mines, that had been described to them in 
Peru, took a circuitous route among the mountains, 
and perished by the cold, which petrified them into 
statues. 



Why seek ye out such dizzy height 

Amid yon drear domain ? 
Why choose ye cells with frost-work white 

Ye haughty men of Spain ? 
The Condor, on his mighty wing 

Doth scale your cloud- wreathed walls, 
But to his scream their caverns ring, 

As from the cliff he falls. 

The poor Peruvian scans with dread 

Your fix'd and stony eye, 
The timid child averts his head, 

And faster hurries by, 



184 THE SOUTH-AMERICAN STATUES. 

They from the fathers of the land 
Have heard your withering tale, 

Nor spare to mock the tyrant band 
Transformed to statues pale. 

Ye came to grasp the Indian's gold, 

Ye scorn' d his feathery dart, 
But Andes rose, that monarch old, 

And took his children's part, 
And with that strange embalming art 

Which ancient Egypt knew, 
He threw his frost- chain o'er your heart, 

As to his breast ye grew. 

He chain' d you while strong manhood's tide 

Did through your bosoms roll 
Upon your lip the curl of pride, 

And avarice in your soul. 
Strange slumber stole with mortal pang 

Across the frozen plain, 
And thunderblasts your sentence rang, 

"Sleep and ne'er wake again." 

Uprose the moon, the Queen of night 

Danc'd with the Protean tide, 
And years fulfill' d their measur'd flight, 

And ripening ages died, 
Slow centuries in oblivion's flood 

Sank like the tossing wave, 



THE SOUTH-AMERICAN STATUES. 185 

But changeless and transfix' d ye stood, 
The dead without a grave. 

The infant wrought its flowery span 

On Love's maternal breast, 
And whiten' d to a hoary man, 

And laid him down to rest, 
Race after race, with weary moan 

Went to their dreamless sleep, 
While ye, upon your feet of stone, 

Perpetual penance keep. 

How little deem'd ye, when ye hurl'd 

Four challenge o'er the main, 
And vow'd to teach a new-born world 

The vassalage of Spain, 
Thus till the doom's-day cry of pain 

Shall rive your prison-rock, 
To bear upon your brow like Cain, 

A mark that all might mock. 

But long from high Castilian bowers 

Jjook'd forth the inmates fair, 
And gave the tardy midnight hours 

To watching and despair, 
Oft starting as some light guitar 

Its breath of sweetness shed, 
Yet lord and lover linger' d far 

Till life's brief vision fled. 



186 THE SOUTH-AMERICAN STATUES. 

Their vaunted tournament is o'er, 

Their knightly lance in rest, 
Ambition's fever burns no more 

Within their conquering breast, 
For high between the earth and skies, 

Check'd in their venturous path, 
A fearful monument they rise, 

Of Andes' vengeful wrath. 



187 



AGRICULTURE. 



The hero hath his fame, 

'Tis blazon'd on his tomb, 
But earth withholds her glad acclaim, 

And frowns in silent gloom : 
His footsteps on her breast 

Were like the Simoom's blast, 
And Death's dark ravages attest 

Where'er the Conqueror past. 

By him her harvests sank, 

Her famish' d flocks were slain, 
And from the fount where thousands drank 

Came gushing blood like rain; 
For him no requiem-sigh 

From vale or grove shall swell, 
But flowers exulting lift their eye, 

Where the proud spoiler fell. 

Look at yon peaceful bands 
Who guide the glittering share, 

The quiet labour of whose hands 
Doth make Earth's bosom fair, 



188 AGRICULTURE. 

For them the rich perfume 
From ripen' d fields doth flow, 

They bid the desert rose to bloom, 
The wild with plenty glow. 

Ah ! happier thus to prize 

The humble, rural shade, 
And like our Father in the skies 

Blest Nature's work to aid, 
Than famine and despair 

Among mankind to spread, 
And Earth our mother's curse to bear 

Down to the silent dead. 



189 



FUNERAL OF A PHYSICIAN. 



There was a throng within the temple-gates, 
And more of sorrow on each thoughtful brow 
Than seemed to fit the sacred day of praise. 
Neighbour on neighbour gaz'd, and friend on 

friend, 
Yet few saluted ; for the sense of loss 
Weigh' d heavy in each bosom. Aged men 
Bowed down their reverend heads in wondering 

woe, 
That he who so retain'd the ardent smile 
And step elastic of life's morning prime, 
Should fall before them. Stricken at his side 
Were friendships of no common fervency 
Or brief endurance ; for his cheering tone 
And the warm pressure of his hand, restor'd 
Young recollections, scenes of boyhood's bliss, 
And the unwounded trust of guileless years. 
— The men of skill, who cope with stern disease, 
And wear Hygeia's mantle, offering still 
Fresh incense at her shrine, with sighs deplore 
A brother and a guide. But can ye tell 
How many now amid this gather' d throng 



190 FUNERAL OF A PHYSICIAN. 

In tender meditations deeply muse, 
Coupling his image with their gratitude ? 
He had stood with them at the gate of death, 
And pluck' them from the spoiler's threatening 

grasp, 
Or, when the roses from their pilgrimage 
Were shorn, walk'd humbly with them 'neath 

the cloud 
Of God's displeasure. Such remembrances 
Rush o'er their spirits with a whelming tide, 
Till in the heart's deep casket tribute tears 
Lie thick, like pearls. And doubt not there are 

those 
'Mid this assembly, in the scanty robes 
Of penury half wrapt, who well might tell 
Of ministrations at their couch of woe, 
Of toil-spent nights, and timely charities, 
Uncounted, save in heaven. 

'Tis well!— 'Tis well! 
The parted benefactor justly claims 
Such obsequies. Yet let the Gospel breathe 
Its strain sublime. A hallow'd hand hath cull'd 
From the deep melodies of David's lyre, 
And from the burning eloquence of Paul, 
Balm from the mourner's wound. But there's 

a group 
Within whose sacred home yon lifeless form 
Had been the centre of each tender hope, 
The soul of every joy. Affections pur© 
And patriarchal hospitality, 



FUNERAL OF A PHYSICIAN. 191 

Like household deities, presiding, spread 
Their wings around, making the favour' d cell 
As bright a transcript of lost Eden's bliss, 
As beams below. Now round that shaded 

hearth 
The polish' d brow of radiant beauty droops, 
Like the pale lily-flower, by pitiless storms 
Press'd and surcharg'd. There too are sad- 

den'd eyes 
More eloquent than words, and bursting hearts ; 
Earth may not heal such grief. ' Tis heaVd in 

heaven. 



192 



NATURE'S BEAUTY. 



I looked on nature's beauty, and it came 

Like a blest spirit to my inmost heart, 

And sadness fled away. The fragrant breeze 

Swept o'er me, as a tale of other times, 

Lifting the curtain from the ancient cells 

Of early memory. The young vine put forth 

Her quivering tendrils, while the patron bough 

Lured their light clasping, with such love as 

leaves 
Do whisper to each other, when they lean 
To drink the music of the summer-shower. 

There was a sound of wings, and through the 

mesh, 
Of her green latticed chamber, stole the bird 
To cheer her callow young. The stream flowed 

on, 
And on its lake-like breast, the bending trees 
Did glass themselves with such serene repose 
That their still haunt seemed holy. The spe m 

sun 



nature's beauty. 193 

Turned to his rest, and soft his parting ray 
To mountain-top, and spire, and verdant grove, 
And burnished casement, and reposing nest, 
Spake benediction. And the vesper-strain 
Went breathing up from every plant and flower. 

The rose did fold itself, as though it caught 
From some high minaret, the cry, " To 

prayer !" 
At which the Moslem kneels ; and the blue eye 
Of the young violet, look'd devoutly forth 
As looks the shepherd, from his cottage door 
When the clear horn doth warn the Alpine 

cliffs 
To praise the Lord. And then the queenly 

moon 
Came through heaven's portal. High her vestal 

train 
Did bear their brilliant cressets in their hands — 
Trembling with pride and pleasure. Beauty lay 
Like a broad mantle on each slumbering dell 
And to the domes, that peered through woven 

shades 
Gave Attic grace. 

'Twere sweet to bear away 
And keep the precious picture in my heart 
Of these sweet woods, and waters, summer. 

drest 
And angel- voic'd — until I lay me down 
On the low pillow of my last repose. 
13 



194 



SENTIMENT IN A SERMON. 



"Piety flourishes best, in a soil watered by tears, 
and often succeeds, where harvests of temporal good 
have failed." 



Hope's soft petals love the beam 

That cheer'd them into birth ;— 
Pleasure seeks a glittering stream 

Bright oozing from the earth ; — 
Knowledge yields his lofty fruit 

To those who climb with toil, 
But Heaven's pure plant strikes deepest root 

Where tears have dew'd the soil. 

Hope with flow' rets strews the blast 

When adverse winds arise ; 
Pleasure's garlands wither fast 

Before inclement skies ; 
Knowledge often mocks pursuit, 

Involv'd in mazy shade, 
But Piety yields richer fruit 

When earthly harvests fade. 



195 
THE POWER OF FRIENDSHIP. 

AN ANCIENT LEGEND OF FRANCONIA. 



'Twas midnight on the Gaulish plains, 
And foes were mustering near ; 

For there Franconia's warriors frown'd, 
With battle-axe and spear. 

Untented on the earth they lay 

Beneath a summer sky, 
While on their slumbering host, the Moon 

Look'd down with wistful eye, 

As if reproachfully she sigh'd 

11 Oh ye of transient breath ! 
How can ye rise from rest so sweet 

To do the deeds of death!" 

Discoursing mid the sleeping train 
Two noble youths were found ; 

Their graceful limbs recumbent thrown 
Upon the dewy ground. 



196 THE POWER OF FRIENDSHIP. 

Bold Carloman's undaunted mien 

A hero's spirit show'd, 
Though Beauty on his lip and brow 

Had made her soft abode. 

And Merovee's dark, hazle eye 
Like flashing fire was bright, 

As thus with flowing words he charm'd 
The leaden ear of night. 

" Methinks 'twere sweet once more to se 

Our native, forest shade, 
And the wild streamlet leaping free 

Along the sparkling glade, 

" With merry shout, at peep of dawn, 

The hunter's toil to join, 
Or in the tiny boat launch forth 

And rule the billowy Rhine." 

He paused, — but Carloman replied, 
" Lurks not some spell behind? — 

Why doth thy courtier- tongue delay 
To name fair Rosalind ? 

" Those raven locks, that lofty brow, 

That ebon eye of pride, 
With firm, yet tender glance, might well 

Beseem a warrior's bride." 



THE POWER OF FRIENDSHIP. 191 

With trembling voice he scarce pursued, 
" Why should we shrink, to say 

How much we both have loved the maid ? 
Yet on our parting day — 

" Her farewell words to me were kind, 

They flow'd in silver tone, 
But ah ! the tear-drop of the soul 

Was shed for thee alone. 



" If in to-morrow's bloody fray, 

I slumber with the slain, 
And thou survive, with joy to greet 

Our native vales again, 

" O bear to her so long adored 

My dying wish," — in vain 
To weave the tissued thoughts he strove, 

For tears fell down like rain. 

Thrice Merovee the mourner's hand 
Wrung hard, and would have said, 

" Fear not that Love's insidious shaft 
Shall strike our friendship dead !" 

He thrice essay'd, — yet still was mute ;— 
Then loosed his bossy shield, 

And laid him down as if to sleep 
Upon the verdant field. 



198 THE POWER OF FRIENDSHIP. 

He laid him down, but wakeful woe 

His weary heart amazed, 
And by the pale moon's waning ray 

On Carloman he gazed. 

The pastimes of their boyish years, 

The confidence of youth, 
And holy Friendship's treasur'd vow 

Of everlasting truth, 

Came thronging o'er his generous soul, 

And ere the dawn of day, 
Up from his restless couch he rose, 

And wander' d lone away. 

But Carloman in broken sleep 
Still roved with troubled mind, 

Oft in his dark dream murmuring deep, 
"Adieu, my Rosalind !" 

Then in his ear a thrilling voice 
Exclaim'd "Brave youth, — arise! 

The morn that lights to glorious strife 
With purple flouts the skies : — 

£To lover to his bridal hastes 

With spirit half so warm, 
As rush Franconia's sons to meet 

Red battle's moody storm." 



THE POWER OF FRIENDSHIP. 199 

Abash' d the youthful sleeper sprang, 

And Merovee stood near, 
An iron chain was in his hand, 

And on his brow a tear. 

Then quickly round the forms of both 

That stubborn band he threw, 
And joined the parted links in one, 

And set the rivet true. 

" Think' st thou I'd cross the rolling Rhine 

And see our forests wave, 
And urge my suit to Rosalind 

When thou wert in thy grave ? 

" No ! — by yon golden orb that rolls 

In splendor through the air, 
If honour's death this day be thine, 

That holy death I'll share." 

They arm'd them for the battle-field, 

Their blood was boiling high, 
Forgot were danger, love, and woe, 

In that proud ecstacy ; 

Forgot was she, whose hand alone 

Could give their hope its meed, 
Forgot was all in earth or heaven 

Save their dear country's need. 



200 THE POWER OF FRIENDSHIP. 

Their rushing legions like the surge 

When tempests lash the main, 
With thundering shout and revelry 

Spread o'er the fatal plain. 

Forth came the cavalry of Gaul, 

With glittering lance and spur, 
Led on by warlike Constantine, 

That Christian Emperor. 

With cloud of darts and clash of swords 

They greet the early sun, 
And when his western gate he sought 

The conflict scarce was done. 

But sober twilight's mantle grey 

Enwrapt a silent plain, 
Save where from wounded bosoms burst 

The lingering groan of pain. 

Crush'd forms were there, where stubborn life 

Still for the mastery pined, 
Stern brows, where death had pass'd, and left 

The frown of hate behind. 

And mid that ghastly train were seen 

Two victims young and fair, 
The chain that bound their polish'd breasts 

Reveal'd what youths they were. 



THE POWER OF FRIENDSHIP. 201 

Bold toward the sky, the marble brow 

Of Carloman was turn'd, 
And firm his right hand grasp' d the sword 

As if some foe he spurn' d ; 

His ample shield was fondly flung, 

To guard his partner's breast, 
And Merovee's pale, bloomless lips 

Upon his cheek were prest ; — 

While weltering in the purple stream 

That dyed their garments' fold, 
Their flowing curls profusely lay, 

Bright chesnut blent with gold. 

And eyes that wept such fate, might read 

Upon their bosom's chain, 
That once when Love and Friendship strove, 

The power of Love was. vain. 



202 



THE GARDEN. 



" Gardens have been the scenes of the three most 
stupendous events that have occurred on earth :— the 
temptation and fall of man— the agony of the Son of 
God— and his resurrection from the grave."— Notes 
of the American Editor of Keble's Christian Year." 



Is't not a holy place, thy garden's bound, 
Peopled with plants, and every living leaf 
Instinct with thought, to stir the musing mind ? 
— Where was it that our Mother wandering 

went, 
When 'mid her nursling vines and flowers, she 

met 
The gliding serpent in his green and gold, 
And rashly listen' d to his glozing tongue, 
Till loss of Eden and the wrath of God 
Did fade from her remembrance ? Was it not 
A garden, where this deed of rashness check'd 
The stainless blossom of a world unborn '( 
— Still, tread with trembling. Hast thou nought 

to fear ? 



THE GARDEN. 203 

No tempter in thy path, with power to sow 
Thy Paradise with thorns, if God permit ? 
So, hold thy way amid the sweets of earth 
With cautious step, and have thy trust above ? 
— Is't not a holy place, thy garden's bound, 
When at the cool close of the summer's day 
Thou lingerest there, indulging sweet discourse 
With lips belov'd? Then speak of Him who 

bare 
Upon his tortur'd brow, strange dews of blood 
For man's redemption. 

Bring the thrilling scene 
Home to thine inmost soul : — the sufferer's cry, 
" Father ! if it be possible, this cup 
Take thou away. — Yet not my will but thine :" 
The sleeping friends who could not watch one 

hour, 
The torch, the flashing sword, the traitor's kiss, 
The astonish'd angel with the tear of Heaven 
Upon his cheek, still striving to assuage 
Those fearful pangs that bow'd the Son of God 
Like a bruis'd reed. Thou who hast power to 

look 
Thus at Gethsemane, be still ! be still! 
What are thine insect- woes compared to his 
Who agonizeth there ? Count thy brief pains 
As the dust-atom on life's chariot wheels, 
And in a Saviour's grief forget them all. 
— Is't not a holy place, thy garden's bound ? 
" Look to the sepulchre !" said they of Rome, 



204 THE GARDEN. 

" And set a seal upon it." So, the guard 
Who knew that sleep was death, stood with fix'd 

eye 
Watching the garden-tomb, which proudly hid 
The body of the crucified. 

Whose steps 
'Mid the ill-stifled sob of woman's grief 
Prevent the dawn? Yet have they come too 

late, 
For He is risen, — He hath burst the tomb, 
Whom 'twas not possible for Death to hold. 
Yea, his pierced hand did cleave the heavens, to 

share 
That resurrection, which the " slow of heart" 
Shrank to believe. 

Fain would I, on this spot, 
So holy, ponder, till the skies grow dark, 
And sombre evening spreads her deepest pall. 
— Come to my heart, thou Wisdom that dost 

grow 
In the chill coffin of the shrouded dead, 
Come to my heart. For silver hairs may spring 
Thick o'er the temples, yet the soul fall short 
Even of that simple rudiment which dwells 
With babes in Christ. I would be taught of 

thee, 
Severe Instructor, who dost make thy page 
Of pulseless breasts and unimpassion'd brows, 
And lips that yield no sound. Thou who dost 

wake 



THE GARDEN. 205 

Man for that lesson which he reads but once, 
And mak'st thy record of the sullen mounds 
That mar the church-yard's smoothness, let me 

glean 
Wisdom among the tombs, for I would learn 
Thy deep, unflattering lore. What have I said ? 
No ! not of thee, but of the hand that pluck'd 
The sceptre from thee. 

Thou, who once didst taste 
Of all man's sorrows, save the guilt of sin, — 
Divine Redeemer ! teach us so to walk 
In these our earthly gardens, as to gain 
Footing at last, amid the trees of God, 
Which by the Eternal River from His Throne 
Nourish'd, shall never fade. 



206 



VICE. 



In vain the heart that goes astray 
From virtue's seraph-guarded way, — 
May hope that feelings, just and free, 
Meek peace, — or firm integrity, — 
Or innocence, with snowy vest 
Will condescend to be its guest. 

As soon within the viper's cell 

Might pure and white-wing'd spirits dwell, 
As soon the flame of vivid gleam 
Glow in the chill and turbid stream ; — 
For by strong links, a viewless chain 
Connects our wanderings with our pain, — 
And Heaven ordains it thus, to show, 
That bands of vice, are bonds of woe. 



20"! 



THE SWEDISH LOVERS. 



Where Dalecarlia's pine -clad hills 
Rear high in air the untrodden snow, 

Where her scant vales and murmuring rills 
A short and sultry summer know, 

Where great Gustavus exiled, fled, 
And found beneath a covering rude, 

Hearts by the noblest impulse led 
Of valour, faith, and fortitude, 

There still, a virtuous race retain 
The simple manners of their sires, 

Unchanged by love of sordid gain, 
Or stern ambition's restless fires, 

And there, where silver Mora flow'd, 
In freshness through the changeful wild, 

A peasant rear'd his lone abode, 
And fair Ulrica was his child. 

Untutor'd by the arts that spoil 

The soul's integrity was she, 
And nurtur'd in the virtuous toil 

Of unpretending poverty. 



208 THE SWEDISH LOVERS. 

Within a neighbouring hamlet's bound, 
In manly beauty's ardent grace, 

Christiern his humble dwelling found 
Amid the miner's hardy race. 

He oft beheld Ulrica's hand 

A part in rural labour take, 
To bind the sheaf with pliant band, 

Or steer the light boat o'er the lake. 

He mark'd the varying toil bestow 
On her pure cheek a richer dye, 

And saw enlivening spirits flow 
In dazzing radiance from her eye. 

Oft in the holy house of prayer 

Where weekly crowds assembling bow, 
He mark'd the meek and reverent air 

Which shed new lustre o'er her brow. 

And soon no joy his heart might share 
Unless her soft smile met his view, 

And soon he thought no scene was fair 
Unless her eye admired it too. 

And duly as the shadows fleet 
O'er closing day, with silence fraught, 

Young Christiern with his lute so sweet 
Ulrica's peaceful mansion sought. 



THE SWEDISH LOVERS. 209 

Long had the gossip's mystic speech 
Deep knowledge of their love profest, 

Before the timid lip of each 
The cherish' d secret had exprest. 

But when the trembling pain reveal'd, 
And vows of mutual faith had cheer' d, 

Quick on the hamlet's verdant field 
Christiern their simple cottage rear'd. 

And taught Ulrica's rose to twine 
Its tendrils round the rustic door, 

And thought how sweet at day's decline 
When the accustom' d task was o'er, 

To sit and pour the evening song 
Amid gay summer's varied bloom, 

And catch the breeze that bore along 
Her favourite flowret's rich perfume. 

The appointed day its course begun 
With gentle beams of rosy light, 

When they whose hearts had long been one 
Should join their hands in hallow'd rite. 

At morn the marriage bell was rung, 

Where the lone spire from chapel towers, 

And village maids assembling hung 
Ulrica's lowly hall with flowers. 
14 



210 THE SWEDISH LOVERS. 

Yet mark'd a shade that pensively 
Was stealing o'er her features fair, 

For mid those hours of festive glee 
The youthful bridegroom came not there. 

Full oft along the coppice green 

She deem'd his well-known step she heard, 
Then brightening, rais'd her lovely mein, 

Then sigh'd — for other guest appear' d. 

Dim twilight o'er the landscape fell, 
Sad evening paced its tardy round, 

Nor Christiern at his father's cell, 
Nor through the hamlet's range was found. 

" 'Tis but in sport," — her neighbours cried, 
"The temper of your heart to prove." — 

" Not thus," the sinking maid replied, 

"Doth Christiern sport with trusting love." 

Night came, but void of rest or sleep 
Move on its watches dark and slow, 

Ulrica laid her down to weep 
In anguish of unutter'd woe. 

How drear the gentle dawn appear'd! 

How gloomy morning's rosy ray ! 
Nor tidings of her lover cheer'd 

The horrors of that lengthen'd day. 



THE SWEDISH LOVERS. 211 

Weeks past away, — all search was vain, — 
Her smile of lingering hope was dead, 

She shunned the joyous village train, 
And from each rural pastime fled. 

Time wrote his history on her brow ! 

In characters of woe severe, 
And furrows mark'd the ceaseless flow 

Of fearful sorrow's burning tear. 

Years roll'd on years, — her friends decay'd, 
Her seventieth winter chill had flown, 

A new and alter'd race survey'd 
The spectre stranger sad and lone. 

" Why do I live ?" — she sometimes sigh'd, 
" Thus crush' d beneath affliction's rod?"— 

But stern reproving thought replied, 
"Ask not such question of thy God !" 

Yet still she lov'd that pine-clad hill 
Where erst her love his way would take, 

Still wander' d near his favourite rill 
Or sat by Mora's glassy lake. 

His white-wash' d cot with roses gay, 
Had lone and tenantless been kept, 

But moulder'd now in time's decay, 
And mid its ruins oft she wept. 



212 THE SWEDISH LOVERS. 

The sound of flail at early morn, 
Or harvest song of happy hind, 

Awoke undying memory's thorn 
To probe anew her wounded mind. 

Where near her cell, the quarries bold 
With veins metallic richly glow, 

And where their yawning chasms unfold 
Dark entrance to the depths below, 

Once, while the miners toil'd to trace, 
Between two shafts an opening new, 

Mid earth and stones, a hitman face 
Glared sudden on their startled view. 

A form erect, of manly size, 
In that embalming niche reposed, 

And slight and carelessly the eyes 
As if in recent dreams were closed. 

The sunburnt tinge that bronzed the brow 
Was bleach'd within that humid shade, 

And o'er the smooth-cheek's florid glow 
The raven curls profusely play'd. 

The pliant hand was soft and fair, 
As if in youth's unfolding prime, 

Altho' the bridal robes declare 
The costume of an ancient time. 



THE SWEDISH LOVERS. 213' 

Yet no recorded fact might tell 
Who fill'd that dark mysterious shrine, 

The hoariest ones remember' d well 
A shock which whelm' d that ruin'd mine, 

But all of him who lifeless slept, 
Was lost in time's unfathom'd deep : 

At length an aged woman crept 

To join the throng who gaze and weep. 

Propp'd on her staff she totter'd near, 
But when the cold corse met her eye, 

She clasp' d her hands in pangs severe, 
And shrieks revealed her agony. 

And fainting on the earth she lay, 
With struggles of convulsive breath, 

As if weak life had fled away 
In terror at the sight of death. 

Yet when their care again could light 

The vital taper's fading flame, 
When day assured her doubtful sight, 

Deep sighs and sobs of anguish came. 

No word of notice or reply 
She deign' d to their inquiring tone, 

One only object fix'd her eye, 
One image fill'd her heart alone. 



214 THE SWEDISH LOVERS. 

'Twas thus, disdaining all relief, 
She mourn' d with agonizing strife, 

While the wild storm of love and grief 
Rack'd the worn ligaments of life. 

'Twas thus o'er age and sorrow's gloom, 
UnchhTd affection soar'd sublime, 

While strangely foster' d in the tomb 
Youth rose, to mock the power of time. 

That shrivell'd form convulsed so long, 
And that bright brow devoid of breath, 

Gleam'd forth in contradiction strong, 
Like buried life, and living death. 

'Twas strange from livid lips to hear 
Such wild lament, such piercing groan, 

While manly love reposing near, 
Call'd forth, yet heeded not the moan. 

The mourner raised the curls whose shade 
Conceal'd that polish'd forehead dear, 

And there her wasted hand she laid, 
Exclaiming in the lifeless ear, 

" Oh ! — have I lived to see that face 
Engraved upon my soul so deep ? 

And in this bitterness to trace, 
Those features wrapt in holy sleep ? 



THE SWEDISH LOVERS. 215 

My promised love ! — thou still hast kept 
The beauty of thy mantling prime, 

While o'er my broken frame have crept 
The wrinkles and the scars of time. 

Yes. — Well may I be wreck' d and torn 
Whom fifty adverse years have seen 

Like blasted oak, the whirlwind's scorn 
Still clinging where my joys had been. 

My boughs and blossoms all were reft, — 
They might not know a second birth, — 

Why were my wither' d roots thus left 
Unhappy cumberers of the earth ? 

Yet still one image soothed my cares, 
Amid my nightly dream would shine, 

Came hovering fondly o'er my prayers, 
And this, my buried lord, was thine. 

That smile ! — ah, still unchanged it plays 
O'er thy pure cheek's vermilion hue, 

As when it met my childhood's gaze, 

Or charm'dmy youth's delighted view, — 

As when thy skilful hand would bring 
From mountain's breast, or shelter'd down, 

The earliest buds of tardy spring 
To scatter o'er my tresses brown. 



216 THE SWEDISH LOVERS. 

But now the blossoms of the tomb 
Have whiten'd all those ringlets gay, 

Whilst thou in bright perennial bloom, 
Dost shine superior to decay. 

Rend from thy lip that marble seal, 
And bid once more those accents flow, 

That waked even coldest hearts to feel, 
And taught forgetfulness to woe. 

Wildly I rave ! — as if thine ears 

The sad recital would receive ; 
Vainly I weep ! — as if those tears 

Could move thy sainted soul to grieve. 

Time was, when Christiern's treasur'd name 
No voice howe'er despised might speak, 

But from my bounding heart there came 
A tide of crimson o'er the cheek ; 

Time was, when Christiern's step was heard 
With raptur'd joy's tumultuous swell, 

And when his least and lightest word, 
Was stored in memory's choicest cell. 

Yet have I lived to mourn thee lost, 
To find each earthly solace fled, 

And now, on time's last billow tost, 
To see thee rising from the dead ! 



THE SWEDISH LOVERS. 217 

Ha ! — didst thou speak, — and call my soul 
To bowers where roses ever bloom, 

Where boundless tides of pleasure roll, 
And deathless love defies the tomb ? 

I come ! I come!" — Strange lustre fired 
Her glazing eye, and all was o'er, 

No more that heaving breast respired, 
And earthly sorrows pain'd no more. 

So there they lay, a lifeless pair, 
Those hearts by youthful love entwined, 

Sever' d by fate, and fix'd despair, 
Were now in death's cold union join'd. 

Full oft in Dalecarlian cells 

When evening shadows darkly droop, 
Some hoary-headed peasant tells 

Their story to a listening group. 

And oft the wondering child willl weep, 
The pensive youth unconscious sigh, 

At hapless Christiern's fearful sleep, 
And sad Ulrica's constancy. 



218 



TO THE MOON. 



Hail, beauteous and inconstant! — Thou who 

roll' st 
Thy silver car around the realm of night, 
Queen of soft hours ! how fanciful art thou 
In equipage and vesture. — Now thou com'st 
With slender horn piercing the western cloud, 
As erst on Judah's hills, when joyous throngs 
With trump and festival, saluted thee ; 
Anon thy waxing crescent 'mid the host 
Of constellations, like some fairy boat, 
Glides o'er the waveless sea ; then as a bride 
Thou bow' st thy cheek behind a fleecy veil, 
Timid and fair ; or, bright in regal robes. 
Dost bid thy full-orb' d chariot roll, 
Sweeping with silent rein the starry path 
Up to the highest node, — then plunging low, 
To seek dim Nadir in his misty cell. 
— Lov'st thou our Earth, that thou dost hold thy 

lamp 
To guide and cheer her, when the wearied Sun 
Forsakes her ? — Sometimes, roving on, thou 

shedd'st 



TO THE MOON. 219 

The eclipsing blot ungrateful, on thy sire 
Who feeds thy urn with light, — but sinking deep 
'Neath the dark shadow of the earth dost mourn 
And find thy retribution. 

— Dost thou hold 
Dalliance with Ocean, that his mighty heart 
Tosses at thine approach, and his mad tides, 
Drinking thy favouring glance, more rudely lash 
Their rocky bulwark ? — Do thy children trace 
Through crystal tube our coarser-featured orb 
Even as we gaze on thee ? With Euclid's art 
Perchance, from pole to pole, her sphere they 

span, 
Her sun -loved tropics — and her spreading seas 
Rich with their myriad isles. Perchance they 

mark 
Where India's cliffs the trembling cloud invade, 
Or Andes with his fiery banner floats 
The empyrean, — where old Atlas towers, — 
Or that rough chain whence he of Carthage 

pour'd 
Terrors on Rome. — Thou, too, perchance, hast 

nursed 
Some bold Copernicus, or fondly calPd 
A Galileo forth, those sun-like souls 
Which shone in darkness, though our darkness 

fail'd 
To comprehend them. — Cans't thou boast, like 

earth, 
A Kepler, skilful pioneer and wise ? — 



220 TO THE MOON. 

A sage to write his name among the stars 
Like glorious Herschel ? — or a dynasty, 
Like great Cassini's, which from sire to son 
Transmitted science as a birthright seal'd ? 
— Rose there some lunar Horrox, — to whose 

glance 
Resplendent Venus her adventurous course 
Reveal' d, even in his boyhood ?• — some La Place 
Luminous as the skies he sought to read ? — 
Thou deign' st no answer, — or I fain would ask 
If since thy bright creation, thou hast seen 
Aught like a Newton, whose admitted eye 
The arcana of the Universe explored ? 
Light's subtle ray its mechanism disclosed, 
The impetuous comet his mysterious lore 
Unfolded, — system after system rose, 
Eternal wheeling thro' the immensity of space, 
And taught him of their laws. Even angels 

stood 
Amaz'd as when in ancient times they saw 
On Sinai's top, a mortal walk with God. 
— But he, to whom the secrets of the skies 
Were whisper'd, — in humility adored, 
Breathing with childlike reverence the prayer 
— " When on yon heavens, with all their orbs I 

gaze, 
Jehovah ! what is man V 



221 



TO THE EVENING PRIMROSE. 



Pale Primrose ! lingering for the evening star 
To bless thee with its beam, — like some fair 
child 
Who, ere he rests on Morpheus' downy car 
Doth wait his mother's blessing, pure and 
mild 
To hallow his gay dream. His red lips breathe 
The prompted prayer, fast by that parent's 
knee, 
Even as thou rear'st thy sweetly fragrant wreath 
To matron Evening, while she smiles on 
thee. 

Go to thy rest, pale flower ! the star hath shed 

His benison, upon thy bosom fair, 
The dews of summer bathe thy pensive head 

And weary man forgets his daily care ; — 
Sleep on, my rose ! till morning gilds the sky 
And bright Aurora's kiss, unseals thy trembling 
eye. 



222 



IMITATION OF PARTS OF THE 
PROPHET AMOS. 



I, from no princely stock, or lineage came, 
Nor bore my sire, a prophet's honour' d name, — 
But 'mid the Tekoan shepherds' manners rude, 
My speech was fashion'd, and my toil pursued. 

O'er hills and dales I led, — o'er streams and 

rocks, 
The wandering footsteps of my herds, and 

flocks, — 
I fed them where the fruitful vallies fling 
Their first, fresh verdure, on the lap of spring ; 
Or where the quiet fountains slowly glide 
Their fringed eyes, among the flowers to hide ; — 
And when the noontide sun, with fervid heat 
Upon the tender lambs, too fiercely beat, 
I guided, where the mountain's sheltering head, 
A sable shade, across the landscape spread. 
There, while they sank in slumber, soft and 

meek, 
I wandered forth, my simple meal to seek, 



IMITATION OF THE PROPHET AMOS. 223 

The juicy wild fig, and the crystal tide 
My strength renew' d, and nature's wants sup- 
plied. 

When sober twilight drew her curtaining shade, 
And on the dewy lawn my flocks were laid, — 
In my rough mantle, by their side reclined 
I gave to holy thoughts my wakeful mind ; — 
The stars, that in their mystic circles move, 
The sparkling blue, of the high arch above, — a 
The pomp of eve, the storm's majestic power, 
The solemn silence of the midnight hour, 
The silver softness of the unveil' d moon, 
Spake to my soul of Him, the Everlasting One. 

Once as I woke, from visions, high and sweet, 
And found my flocks reposing at my feet, 
— Saw morning's earliest ray, the hills invest, 
Stream o'er the forest, touch the mountain's 

breast, 
Glance o'er the glittering streams and dart its 

way, 
Thro' the damp vales, where slumbering va- 
pours lay, — 
Methought, within my heart, a light there 

shone 
More clear, and glorious than the rising sun, — 
And while my every nerve with rapture thrilled, 
A Power Supreme, my soul in silence held. 



224 IMITATION OF THE TKOPHET AMOS. 

Quick to the earth, my bending knee I bowed, 
My raised eyes fixing on a crimson cloud, — 
Which from its cleaving arch, the mandate bore, 
"Go shepherd, lead thy much-lov'd flock no 

more !" — 
My trembling lips now press'd the soil I trod,— 
"Shepherd, forsake thy flock, and be the seer 

of God." 
Uprising at the heavenly call, I laid 
My crook and scrip beneath the spreading shade, 
" I go, I go, my God !" my answering spirit said. 

Thro' the rude stream I dash'd, whose foaming 

tide, 
Came whitening o'er the mountain's hoary side ; 
But pressing on my path, I heard with pain, 
The approaching footsteps of my cherished 

train, — 
And wept, as gazing on their fleecy pride, 
I thought, who now their wandering steps should 

guide. 

Yet still, within, the hallow'd impulse burn'd, 
And soon, its answering thoughts my heart re- 
turn' d ; — 
"My tender lambs, my unfed flock, adieu, 
My God, a shepherd will provide for you, 
One kind as I have been, whose care shall guide 
You, where fresh pastures smile, and fountains 
glide; 



IMITATION OF THE PROPHET AMOS. 225 

A hand unseen, a voice and purpose true, 
Divide you from my charge, and me from 
you." 

What tho' my rustic speech and shepherd's 

dress 
But ill a prophet's dignity express, — 
What tho' the doom I bear, be dark with fear, 
And grate repulsive on the guilty ear, — 
What tho' my heart beneath fierce tortures 

break, 
And I, a martyr's fiery death partake, — 
Yet He, who summoned from yon distant rock, 
The rough-clad man to leave his simple flock, 
With strength will gird him, for his wants pro- 
vide, 
And quell the clamours of the sons of pride. 

With fearless brow, I sought his haughty foes, 
Where proud Samaria's regal ramparts rose. 
But lo ! the wasted suburbs, parch' d and dry 
Spread a brown heath, to meet the wondering 

eye, 
The smitten verdure, and the sterile plain, 
Disclosed the march of a devouring train, 
Before whose face, the fruitful earth was fair 
Behind, a prey to famine, bleak and bare. — 
The wasted herds, a poor, neglected train, 
Sought their accustom' d food, but sought in 

vain, — 

15 



226 IMITATION OF THE PKOPHET AMOS. 

Some, mad with hunger, spurn'd the flinty clay, 
And some in pangs of death, despairing lay. 

Then, low to earth I bent my drooping head, 
As one who mourns his dearest idol dead, — 
" My God !" I cried, " my God, arise and see, 
Thy choser. people's fearful misery ! — 
The sick land mourns its harden' d children's 

sin, 
Thy wrath devours without and guilt within : — 
Ah ! who shall drooping Israel's strength repair, 
If thou dost cast him from thy succouring care V ' 
An answering voice was heard, — it spake to 

me, — 
God spake from heaven — "This judgment shall 

not be." 

Soon, nature's languid form, reviving fair, 
Sang praises to the God who answers prayer ; — 
Vanish' d the reptile host, — the withering stem 
Spread forth anew, the bud reveal' d its gem, — 
Deep mourning earth, her robe of joy resum'd, 
And spicy gums, the summer gales perfum'd. 

A flame ! — a flame ! — its awful ravage spread 
With quenchless wrath and indignation dread, 
Fed on the domes of pride, with angry sweep 
And hiss'd defiance at the watery deep. 
Ah ! — who shall stay its rage, or curb its power? 
Our God ! — protect us, — in this dreadful hour. 



IMITATION OF THE PROPHET AMOS. 227 

Long in my midnight prayer, I wept and 
mourn' d, — 

" This also shall not be,"— Jehovah's voice re- 
turn' d. 

Repent ! Repent ! — ye rebel race, I cried, — 
Go mourn and seek your God, ye sons of pride. 
Ye wound the stranger, — on the poor ye press, — 
Defraud the widow and the fatherless, — 
Ye scoff at justice, — every sin ye know, — 
And give to idols what to God ye owe. 
Scorn and contempt upon his law ye cast, — 
And think ye to escape his righteous wrath at 
last? 

Your palace shakes ! — A sword in crimson 

dy'd, 
Is drawn, all reeking, from your prince's side, — 
Hoarse cries of treason rend the shuddering 

air, — 
Murder and strife, and foul revolt are there, — 
Woes tread on woes, and trembling pity weeps 
O'er your fall'n city and its slaughter' d heaps. 

Ho ! — ye, who sink on couches, soft with 

down, — 
And all your crimes in wine and music drown, — 
Who snatch the garment from the shivering 

poor, 
And wrest his pittance, to increase your store, — 



228 IMITATION OF THE PROPHET AMOS. 

You, first, the plagues and wants of war shall 

vex, 
The captive's yoke shall cling around your 

necks, 
And you shall groan, in servitude and scorn, 
Like the slave sorrowing o'er his dead first-born. 
Ah sinful nation ! — of thy God accurst, 
Thy glory stain' d, thy crown defil'd with dust, 
Go, — hide thee in Mount Carmel, — dive the 

deep, — 
Plunge in the slimy cells where serpents creep, — 
Make through the earth's dark dens, thy secret 

path, — 
Yet canst thou shun the purpose of His wrath ? 

"Hence, to your woods," they cried, "your 

herds and flocks, — 
Go, drive your few sheep o'er the rugged 

rocks, — 
Who bade you dare to quit the lowing throng ? 
Who made you judge of violence and wrong ?" 

" He, who beheld me, at my humble toil, — 
Content and cheerful, in my native soil, — 
He, who heholds you, from the frowning skies, — 
And all your wrath and arrogance defies ; — 
He call'd me from my flocks and pastures fair, 
He gave the message, which I boldly bear, — 
And which I bear till death : — so breathe your ire, 
And wreak such vengeance, as your souls de- 
sire. 



IMITATION OF THE PROPHET AMOS. 229 

Say, — whose strong arm compos' d this won- 
drous frame ? 

Who stay'd the fury of the rushing flame ? 

Who made the mighty sun to know his place ? 

And fill'd with countless orbs yon concave space ? 

Who from his cistern bade the waters flow 

And on the spent cloud hung his dazzling bow ? 

Who drives thro' realms immense his thunder- 
ing car 

To far Orion and the morning star ? 

Who light to darkness turns ? — and night to 
death ? 

Gives the frail life and gathers back the breath ? 

Who gave this ponderous globe, with nicest care 
To balance lightly on the fluid air ? 
Who raised yon mountains to their lofty height? 
Who speeds the whirlwind in its trackless flight ? 
Who darts thro' deep disguise, his piercing ken 
To read the secret thoughts and ways of men ? 
Who gave the morning and the midnight birth ? 
Whose muffled step affrights the quaking earth ? 
Who curb'd the sea ? and touch' d the rocks with 

flame? 
Jehovah, God of Hosts, is his tremendous name. 



230 



DEATH OF THE PRINCIPAL OF A 
RETREAT FOR THE INSANE. 



Few have been mourned like thee. The wise 

and good 
Do gather many weepers round their tomb, 
And true affection makes her heart an urn 
For the departed idol, till that heart 
Is ashes. With such sorrow art thou mourned, 
And more than this. There is a cry of woe 
Within the halls of yon majestic dome — 
A tide of grief, which reason may not check, 
Nor faith's deep anchor fathom. 

Straining eyes 
That gaze on vacancy, do search for thee, 
Whose wand could put to flight the fancied ills 
Of sick imagination. The wrecked heart 
Keepeth the echo of thy soothing voice 
An everlasting sigh within its cells, 
And morbidly upon that music feeds. 
Mind's broken column 'mid its ruins bears 
Thy chiselled features. Thy dark eye looks 

forth 



DEATH OF THE PRINCIPAL, ETC. 231 

From memory's watch-tower on the phrenzy- 

dream, 
Ruling its imagery, or with strange power 
Controlling madness, as the shepherd's harp 
Subdued the moody wrath of Israel's king. 
Even where the links of thought and speech are 

broke, 
'Mid that most absolute and perfect wreck, 
When throneless reason flies her idiot-foe, 
Thou hast a place. The fragments of the soul 
Do bear thine impress — shadowy, yet endeared, 
And multiplied by countless miseries. 
Beside some happy hearth, where fire-side joys 
And renovated health, and heaven-born hope, 
Swell high in contrast with the maniac's cell, 
Thou art remembered by exulting hearts, 
With the deep rapture of that lunatic 
Whom Jesus healed. 

Still there's a wail for thee, 
From those poor sufferers, whom the world hath 

cast 
Out of her company. — 

Thou wert their friend, 
And in their dark approach to idiocy, 
Thy wasting midnight vigil was for them : 
The toil, the watching, and the stifled pang 
That stamped thee as a martyr, were for them. 
They could not thank thee, save with that 

strange shriek 
Which wounds the gentle ear. Yet thou didst 

walk 



232 DEATH OF THE PRINCIPAL, ETC. 

In thy high ministry of love and power, 
As a magician 'mid their spectre-foes 
And maniac visions. 

Thou didst mark sublime 
Death's angel sweeping o'er thy studious page, 
And, at his chill monition, laying down 
The boasted treasures of philosophy, 
Enrob'd thyself in meekness as a child 
Waiting the father's will. 

And so farewell, 
Thou full of love to all whom God hath made, 
Thou tuned to melody, go home ! go home ! 
Where music hath no dissonance, and love 
Doth poise for ever on her perfect wing. 



233 



LEGH RICHMOND AMONG THE 
RUINS OF IONA. 



Where old Iona's ruins spread 

In shapeless fragments round, 
And where the crown' d and mighty dead 

Repose in cells profound ; — 
Where o'er Columba's buried towers 

The shrouding ivy steals, 
And moans the owl from cloister' d bowers, 

A holy teacher kneels. 

Rocks spring terrific to the sky, 

Rude seas in madness storm ; 
And grimly frowns on Fancy's eye 

The Druid's awful form, 
With mutter' d curse, and reeking blade, 

And visage stern with ire ; — 
Yet 'mid that darkly-blended shade 

Still bends the stranger sire. 

He prays, — the father for his child, 
The distant and the dear : 



234 LEGH RICHMOND. 

And where yon abbey o'er the wild 

Uprais'd its arches drear, 
When at high mass, or vesper strain 

Rich voices fill'd the air, 
From all that cowl'd and mitred train 

Rose there a purer prayer ? 

His name is on a simple scroll 

With Christian ardour penn'd, 
Which, thrilling, warns the sinner's soul 

To make his God a friend ; 
But when the strong archangel's breath 

The ancient vaults shall rend, 
And starting from the dust of death 

Those waken' d throngs ascend, — 

Meek saint ! — the boldest of the bold 

That sword or falchion drew, 
Barons, whose fearful glance controll'd 

Vassal and monarch too, 
Proud heroes of the tented field, 

Kings of a vaunted line, 
May wish their blood-bought fame to yield 

For honours won like thine. 



235 



MARIE OF WURTEMBURG.* 



Who moves in beauty, mid the regal bovvers 

Of her dear native France ? 
And while the fairy-footed hours 
Round her all enchanted dance, 
With florist's care doth nurse meek virtue's 
flowers ? 
Who bends so low 
To hear the tale of woe, 
And with a cloudless sunshine in her breast, 
Findeth her highest joy, in making others blest ? 

Genius, with inspiration high, 
Beams from her enkindled eye, 



* The Princess Marie, daughter of Louis PhilJippe 
of France, and married to Alexander, the Duke of 
Wurtemburg, had among other accomplishments, a 
great genius for sculpture. When the tidings of her 
death reached her native realm, the Queen said, in 
her grief, " I have one daughter less,— but Heaven an 
angel more." 



236 MARIE OF WURTEMBURG. 

Her sculptur'd touch, how fine, 
The graces o'er her chisel hang, and guide its 
every line. 
At her creative power 
Forth springs that warrior-maid 

Who erst in danger's darkest hour 
Her country's foemen staid ; 
Lo ! Joan of Arc, energic as of old, 
Stands forth at Marie's call, and fires the marble 
cold. 

I hear rich music float, 
Hark ! 'tis a marriage lay, — 
Love swells with joy the enraptur'd note, 

Kings and their realms are gay, — 
Bright pageants guild the auspicious day, 
While Germany, who wins the gem 
Thus given from Gallia's diadem, 

A glad response doth pay ; 
And Alexander, with a princely pride, 
Leads to his palace -home his all- accomplished 
bride. 

The skies of Italy are bright, 
The olives green on Pisa's height, 

But on that verdant shore 
Is one whom health with rosy light 

Revisiteth no more. 
How sad, beneath such genial shade, 
To see the flower of France reposing but to fade. 



MARIE OF WURTEMBURG. 237 

An infant's plaint of woe ! 
Alas, poor babe ! — how dire thy fate, — 
A loss thou canst not know, 
Whose drear extent each opening year must 
show, 
Meets thee at the world's fair gate : 
Thy tender memory may not hold 
The image of that scene of death, 
When the stern spoiler, all unmov'd and cold, 
Took thy sweet mother's breath, — 
Thy father weeping by her side, 
As, powerless on his breast, she bow'd her head 
and died. 

She might not lull thee to thy rest, 
Or longer linger here, 
To dry thine infant tear, 
And share the unimagin'd zest 

Of young maternity. 
But from her home, amid the blest, 

Gazeth she not on thee ? 
Doth she not watch thee when soft slumbers 
steep 
Thy gentle soul in visions deep ? 
Press on thy waking eyes an angel's kiss, 
And bid thee rise at last, to yon pure realm of 
bliss ? 



238 



ZAMA. 



I looked, and on old Zama'sarid plain 

Two chieftains stood. At distance ranged their 

hosts, 
While they, with flashing eye, and gesture 

strong, 
Held their high parley. One was sternly marked 
With care and hardship. Still his warrior soul 
Frowned in unbroken might, as when he sealed, 
In ardent boyhood, the eternal vow 
Of enmity to Rome. The other seemed 
Of younger years, and on his noble brow 
Beauty with magnanimity sat throned ; 
And yet, methought, his darkening eye-ball 

said, 
" Delenda est Carthago." 

Brief they spake, 
And parted as proud souls in anger part, 
While the wild shriek of trumpets, and the rush 
Of cohorts rent the air. I turned away. 
The pomp of battle, and the din of arms 
May round a period well ; but to behold 



ZAMA. 239 

The mortal struggle, and the riven shield — 
To mark how nature's holiest, tenderest ties 
Are sundered — to recount the childless homes, 
And sireless babes, and widows' early graves, 
Made by one victor-shout, bids the blood creep 
Cold through its channels. 

Once again I looked — 
When the pure moon unveiled a silent scene — 
Silent, save when from 'neath some weltering 

pile 
A dying war-horse neighed, in whose gored 

breast 
Life lingered stubbornly, or some pale knight 
Half-raised his arm, awakened by the call 
Of his loved steed, even from the dream of death. 
With stealthy step the prowling plunderer 

stalked, 
The dark- winged raven led her clamorous brood 
To their dread feast, and on the shadowy skirts 
Of that dire field, the fierce hyena rolled 
A keen malevolent eye. 

Time sped its course. 
Fresh verdure mantled Zama's fatal plain, 
While Carthage, with a subjugated knee 
And crownless head, toiled 'mid the slaves of 

Rome. 

Once more I sought Hamilcar's awful son — 
And, lo ! an exiled, and despised old man, 
Guest of Bithynian perfidy, did grasp 



240 ZAMA. 

The poison-goblet in his withered hand, 
And drink and die ! 

Say ! is this he who rent 
The bloody laurel from Saguntum's walls? 
That eagle of the Alps, who through the clouds 
Which wrapp'd in murky folds their slippery 

heights, 
Goaded his ponderous elephants ? — who roll'd 
Victory's deep thunder o'er Ticinus' tide ? 
And mid the field of Cannae wav'd his sword 
Like a destroying angel ? 

This is he ! 
And this is human glory. 

God of might ! 
Gird with Thy shield our vacillating hearts, — 
That mid the illusive and bewildering paths 
Of this dim pilgrimage, we may not lose 
Both this world's peace, and the rewards of that 
Which hath no end. 

From this unmeasur'd loss, 
This wreck of all probationary hope, 
Defend us, Power Supreme. 



241 



PILGRIM FATHERS. 



What led the pilgrims through the wild 

On, to this stranger land, 
Matron and maid, and fragile child, 

An uncomplaining band ? 
Deep streams their venturous course oppos'd, 

Dark wastes appall' d their eye ; 
What fill'd them on that trackless way, 

With courage bold and high ? 

What cheer' d them, when dire winter's wrath 

A frosty challenge threw, 
And higher than their trembling roofs 

The mocking snow-drift grew ? 
When in its wasted mother's arms, 

To famine's ills, a prey, 
The babe bereft of rosy charm9 

Pin'd like a flower away ? 

And when the strong heart -sickness came, 

And memory's troubled stream, 
Still imag'd forth fair England's homes, 

That lull'd their cradle-dream,— 
16 



242 PIL&RIM FATHERS. 

When no lone vessel ploughed the wave. 

News from her clime to bear, 
What nobly bore the stricken soul, 

Above that deep despair ? 

What gave them strength, 'mid all their toil, 

In every hour of need 
To plant within this sterile soil 

A glorious nation's seed ? 
The same that nerv'd them when they sank 

To rest, beneath the sod, — 
That rais'd o'er death, the triumph-song, — 

Prayer, and the faith of God. 



243 



"WEEP NOT.' 



Waepnot— be hath gone home— that little one." 

Mullner. 



Gone home! Gone home ! — how many a prayer 
of love, 

Breath' d out its ardour, to detain thee here, — 
And Fancy's dream its spell of fondness wove 

To make thee happy, as thou wert most dear. 

Tho' round thy lip the smile complacent play'd, 
And joy enwrapp'd thee in her robe of light, — 

Yet was it not the thought of home, that made 
Thy brow so beautiful ? — thine eye so bright ? 

The thought of home ! they deem'd it not, who 
knew 

Thy dear delight, among the garden flowers, 
Thy loving heart, to warm affection true, 

And all the gladness of thine infant hours. 



244 "weep not." 

Weep not : — 'mid thornless flowers that never 
fade, 
In bowers of bliss where raptures never cloy, 
Thou hast thy home, thy changeless mansion 
made, 
Our transient visitant, — our angel boy. 



245 



ON THE DEATH OF A FORMER 
PUPIL. 



Not long it seems, since she with childish brow 
Pondered her lessons, — in rich fields of thought 
A ripe and ready student. Her clear mind, 
Precocious, yet well-balanced, — her delight 
In varied knowledge, — her melodious tone 
Of elocution, falling on the ear 
Like some rare harp, on which the soul doth 

play, 
Her sweet docility, 'twas mine to mark, — 
And marking, love. 

Then came the higher grades 
Of woman's duty: — and the pure resolve, 
The persevering goodness, — the warm growth 
Of every household-charity, — the ties 
That bind to earth, and yet prepare for heaven, 
Were gently wreath' d amid the clustering fruits 
Of ripened intellect. 

But soon, alas ! 
In search of health, to distant scenes she turn'd, 
A patient traveller, still, with wasted form, 



246 ON THE DEATH OF A FORMER PUPIL. 

Led on by mocking hope. And far away, 
From her lov'd home, where spread in fadeless 

green, 
The Elm, which cheer'd her sainted grandsire's 

gaze, 
(Like Mamre's Oak, o'er Abraham's honoured 

head) 
Far from the chamber, where her cradle rock'd, 
And where she hop' d her couch of death might be 
The Spoiler found her. 

The long gasp was hers, — 
But the meek smile was her Redeemer's gift, 
His victor-token. And the bosom -friend 
Took that bequest into his bursting heart, 
As in the sleepless ministry of love, 
He stood beside her, in that parting hour. 

See'st thou the desolate, on his return? — 

Know'st thou the sadness of his lonely way? — 
Deep silence, where the tender word had been,— 
And at the midnight watch or trembling dawn, 
The sullen echo of the hearse-like wheel, 
Avoiding every haunt, and pleasant bower 
Where the dear invalid so late reclin'd, 
Lest some light question of a stranger's tongue 
Should harrow up the soul. Know'st thou the 

pang 
When his reft home, first met his mournful 

view ? 
What brings he to his children ? 



ON THE DEATH OF A FORMER PUPIL. 247 

Yon fair boy 
Who at the casement stands and weeps, — can 

tell,— 
And he, who cannot tell, — that younger one, 
Whose boundless loss steals like some strange 

eclipse 
Over a joyous planet, — and the babe 
Stretching its arms for her who comes no more. 
Oh ! if the blest in heaven, take note of earth, 
Will not the mother's hovering spirit brood 
O'er those fair boys? 

It is not ours to say, — 
We only know that if a christian's faith 
Hath changeless promise of the life to come, 
That heritage is hers. And so we lay 
Her body in the tomb, — with praise to God 
For her example, — and with prayer, to close 
Our time of trial, in such trust serene. 



248 



THE SLEEPING INFANT. 



Sweet infant, beautiful as light, 
That on the snow-drop's bosom glows, 

When scap'd from wrathful winter's might, 
It trembles through incumbent snows, — 

Amid thy cradle sleep we watch 

The varying thought that faintly gleams, 

As tho' we fondly hop'd to catch 
The angel- whisper of thy dreams. 

The angel-whisper ! Tell us what 
Is breath' d from that celestial clime ; 

Thou, nearer to its white-winged host 
Than we who tread the thorns of time :— 

Thou canst not tell, — no words are thine, — 
But the pure smile that lights thy brow 

Is sure the language of the skies, — 
Oh keep it still unchanged, — as now. 



250 the orphan's trust. 

And therefore, unto Thee I turn, 

The never-changing Friend, 
Whose years eternal cannot fail, 

Whose mercies have no end ; — 
Thro' all my pilgrim path below, 

A Father deign to be, 
And show that mother's tender love 

Who hath forsaken me. 



249 



THE ORPHAN'S TRUST. 



" When my father and my mother forsake me, then 
the Lord will take me up."— David. 



He, who around my infant steps, 

A firm protection threw, 
Whose prayers upon my head distill' d, 

Like summer's holy dew, — 
The staff hath fallen from his hand, 

The mantle from his breast, 
And underneath the church-yard mould 

He takes a quiet rest. 

And she, who at each cradle-moan, 

At every childish fear, - 
At every fleeting trace of pain 

Stood, full of pity near ; — 
Who to her fondly-cherish'd child 

Such deep affection bore, 
She too, hath given the parting kiss, 

And must return no more. 



251 



THE ORDINATION. 



Up to thy Master's work ! for thou art sworn 
To do his bidding, till the hand of death 
Strike off thine armour. Thy deep vow denies 
To hoard earth's gold, or truckle for its smile, 
Or bind its blood-stain'd laurel on thy brow. 

— A nobler field is thine. — The soul! the 

soul ! — 
That is thy province, — that mysterious thing, 
Which hath no limit from the walls of sense, — 
No chill from hoary time, — with pale decay 
No fellowship, — but shall stand forth unchang'd, 
Unscath'd amid the resurrection fires, 
To bear its boundless lot of good or ill. 
And dost thou take authority to aid 
This pilgrim-essence to a throne in heaven 
Among the glorious harpers, and the ranks 
Of radiant seraphim and cherubim ? 

Thy business is with that which cannot die, — 
Whose subtle thought the untravell'd universe 



252 THE ORDINATION. 

Spans on swift wing, from slumbering ages 

sweeps 
Their buried treasures, scans the vault of 

heaven, 
Poises the orbs of light, points boldly out 
Their trackless pathway through the blue ex- 
panse, 
Foils the red comet in its flaming speed, 
And aims to read the secrets of its God. 
— Yet thou, a son of clay, art privileg'd 
To make thy Saviour's image brighter still, 
In this majestic soul ! 

Give God the praise 
That thou art counted worthy, — and lay down 
Thy lip in dust. — Bethink thee of its loss, 
For He whose sighs on Olivet, whose pangs 
On Calvary, best speak its priceless worth, 
Saith that it may be lost. Should it sin on 
Till the last hour of grace and penitence 
Is meted out, ah ! what would it avail 
Though the whole world, with all its pomp, and 

power, 
And plumage, were its own? What were its 

gain 
If the brief hour-glass of this life should fail, 
And leave remorse no grave, — despair, no hope ? 

Up, blow thy trumpet, sound the loud alarm 
To those who sleep in Zion. Boldly warn 
To 'scape their condemnation, o'er whose head 



THE ORDINATION. 253 

Age after age of misery hath roll'd, 

Who from their prison-house look up and see 

Heaven's golden gate, and to its watchmen 

cry, 
" What of the night?" while the dread answer 

falls 
With fearful echo down the unfathom'd depths : 
"Eternity!" 

Should one of those lost souls 
Amid its tossings utter forth thy name, 
As one who might have pluck' d it from the pit, 
Thou man of God ! would there not be a burst 
Of tears in heaven? 

O, live the life of prayer, 
The life of faith in the meek Son of God, 
The life of tireless labour for His sake : 
So may the angel of the covenant, bring 
Thee to thy home in bliss, with many a gem 
To glow for ever in thy Master's crown. 



254 



THE HOST OF GIDEON. 



Op the crystal streamlet taste, 
Warriors, in your eager haste, — 
Here refresh your wearied line, 
Ere in battle-strife ye join. 
— Some upon the verdant strand 
Scoop the water with their hand, 
Others, on their knees supine, 
For a deeper draught incline. 
— But their chieftain standing by, 
Mark'd them with an eagle-eye, 
And his heaving bosom fir'd, 
As he spake the doom inspir'd. 

"By the few, who scoop'd the wave, 
Shall our God, his Israel save,— 
On, — ye chosen, — on with me, — 
Yours the toil, — the victory." 

Small the band, yet on they prest, 
Heaven's own courage in their breast, 
And the strong and haughty foe, 
Covering all the vale below, — 
At their onset hold and high, 
At their trumpet's fearful cry, 



THE HOST OF GIDEON. 255 

Prince, and chariot, turn'd and fled, 
Helpless in that hour of dread. 

Soldiers of a glorious head, 
While this leagur'd earth ye tread, 
Lightly taste of Pleasure's wave, — 
Bow not down like Passion's slave, 
Lest, while others watchful stand, 
Ye forget the promis'd land, 
Lest, thy Leader's voice decree 
Joy to them, and shame to thee. 



256 



FAREWELL. 



Farewell ! it hath a sombre tone, 

The lip is slow to take it, 
It seemeth like the willow's moan 

When autumn winds awake it ; 
It seemeth like, the distant sea 

Round some lone islet sighing, 
And yet thou say'st it unto me, 

And wait' st for my replying. 

Farewell ! thou fly'st from Winter's wrath 

'Mid sunny bowers to hide thee, 
May freshest roses deck thy path, 

Yet bring no thorn to chide thee ; 
And may'st thou find that better land 

Where no bright dream is broken, 
No flower shall fade in beauty's hand, 

And no farewell be spoken. 



UMy'!2 



